“Your mom took the chai tea latte. She didn’t think you’d want that one.”
My mom smiles at a drink I know she can’t stand.
When I still don’t respond, the mayor holds out his hand again. Richard brings over a plastic grocery bag. “We also brought a Diet Coke and a Sprite, in case you’re not a big coffee drinker.”
“I thought you might take the green tea lemonade,” my mother says with the practiced pretense of manners and class. She’s always been able to turn it on when needed.
The mayor puts the drink in front of me. “All right then . . .” He takes the latte for himself and gives the other to Richard, who returns to the kitchen counter. Richard shrugs and grins and doesn’t touch his drink.
The whole thing is bizarre. The mayor of Chicago treats me like a guest in my own home and offers me one of six different drinks he picked up before coming here. My mom can’t think this is normal either, not that I can tell by her expression.
The mayor takes a sip. “I came over tonight to see how you were doing, Amelia. Saturday was a tough day for our city. For you especially, I’d imagine.”
The ice in my cup is near melted. Only a few flat discs left. While I like green tea lemonade, I can’t bring myself to drink it. “Don’t you have people for that?”
My mom shoots me a warning look.
The mayor smiles. “This is something I wanted to do myself.”
So camera crews could film him being chivalrous, no doubt. It’s something Cullen would do. I’ve never met the mayor. The only thing I know about him is that I don’t like his son. Maybe not a great reason to dislike him, but something in my gut feels off.
I fold my hands in my lap. “I’m managing.”
“That’s an admirable answer. You’re clearly a strong young lady,” he says in a smooth, steady voice. “Like your mother.”
He nods to my mom playing the part of the resilient widow.
“Appearances can be deceiving.” I’m not sure who I’m trying to insult—the mayor? My mom? Myself? This conversation that feels phony for a million different reasons?
The mayor’s smile widens, reminding me of Cullen. “You don’t give yourself enough credit. When I picked you up from our dock, you were in bad shape. We were all worried it was too late. But here you are today, alive and well, walking, talking, ignoring the drink I brought for you.” He gestures toward my cup. “I’d say that takes quite a bit of strength.”
Watching him say it to my face, like he’s trying to convince me that he carried my limp, unconscious body in his arms—I’m more certain than ever. Definitely wasn’t him. Maybe Richard. His height is more accurate from what I remember. But Richard’s arms are rail thin. I’m not sure he’s strong enough.
I imitate the mayor’s artificial smile. “I’m not sure if I got the chance to say this Saturday—I hardly remember you being there at all—but thank you so much for carrying me into your home.”
Richard’s eyes flicker toward me. The mayor, however, doesn’t flinch.
He adjusts his suit. Tailored. Expensive. “You seem like the kind of girl who would do the same.” The crow’s-feet at his eyes make him look congenial as ever. “I was just talking with your mom about your dad’s service.”
For a moment, I don’t follow what he’s saying.
“You told reporters earlier today you were at the pier to honor your dad for his service to the Navy and our city,” he says, clarifying like he knows I’m not sure what he’s talking about. “I knew Steven well. We didn’t always see eye to eye, but he was still a good man, your father.” He pauses as if to honor him with silence.
I lace my hands together and squeeze. I’m sure my knuckles are turning white, but I refuse to look away from the mayor.
He leans toward me, and for a second I think he’s going to grab my hand and hold it as we speak. Instead, he folds his hands together in a way that mimics mine. “You know, Lia, if there’s anything you can tell us about Saturday’s attack that would help our own investigation, our city would be indebted to you as well.” He speaks quietly as if it’s just us two BFFs sipping glorified coffee drinks, trading the intimate secrets of our lives.
Very convenient of him to finally get my name right. Very convenient of him to bring up my lie to the press after I call him out on his. But the mayor’s face remains pleasant and trusting. His lips are curved in a half smile. He’s handsome, like Cullen—without the transparent arrogance. His is subtle. If my gut weren’t telling me otherwise, I might consider confiding in him. Or Richard at the very least. Only, right now I have nothing to tell. No images. No tweet. Turning over what I know about Ryan—if that’s even his real name—is flimsy at best. Before I say anything to anyone, I need proof that someone big is orchestrating these attacks.
“I told the police everything I know already.” My words come out smaller than I intend.
The mayor glances at the TV behind me. I’m tempted to look at it myself to see what he’s watching, but his focus returns to me. “You know, Amelia, I grew up in this city,” he says, very politician-esque. “I met my first wife at the very school you and Cullen attend. She was something else—smart, passionate, opinionated. She wanted to change the world. I asked her to marry me two months after we graduated college.” He looks down as if reminiscing.
“It was her idea I get involved in politics. I started by running for alderman of Ward 51 and won. Pretty easily. Shortly after I took office, she was caught in gang crossfire while bringing home takeout from our favorite Indian restaurant. It happened in Lincoln Square—a proclaimed safe place to live and raise a family, which we never got to do.” Again, he pauses.
“After that, I vowed to do whatever it took to put an end to gang violence in our city. I’m still just as committed to that cause. But I need the support of the people of this city—of you, Lia—to help me do that.”
My palms press so tightly against one another that I feel the burn running up my arms. I boil inside as I fight to keep my expression even. It feels like a jab. Gangs had nothing to do with the attack. He knows my dad was out to prove that, and he must know I won’t endorse that phony theory. Is that the real reason he’s here? To get me on his side of the debate?
Of course, he, of all people, needs gangs to be responsible. He needs the city to be in control, taking action.
I’m tempted to say it, to clarify exactly what I didn’t see—that there wasn’t a huge Latino population on the pier during the attack like the papers are claiming. But a warning in my head screams to keep my mouth shut about this. He isn’t interested in the truth. Not until I can prove it. If he’s even the person I can trust with the evidence once I have it.
“That was a campaign ad, right? For your last election?” I cock my head. “I’m sure I’ve heard that story before—word for word.”
“There was an ad that referenced my first wife’s story, yes. A family history like that, well, it empowered me at least to do the right thing.”
My mom sips her drink, breaking the quiet tension.
The mayor holds his hand out to Richard again. “Richard, give them our number.”
Richard slides two cards toward my mom and me. The cards have Richard’s name and number on them, not the mayor’s, which I’m thankful for.
The mayor stands. “If you think of anything at all, please call. We’re all on the same team here.”
Once again Richard focuses on the TV, and I wonder how someone like him got involved with the mayor. They seem like complete opposites.
I turn to find Cullen and me on the screen. Emi Vega, who wasn’t even there at that point, has footage of the pathetic interview I gave after school. Cullen completes his spiel about my family and me needing privacy. His schmooze is more overt than his father’s. I can’t believe anyone falls for either of them.
The mayor bows his head. “I’m glad Cullen was there to help you. These reporters can be real bastards.” His voice is different, and when he smiles for a brief second, it’s
sadder. Distant. Genuine? I start to wonder if I’m wrong about him.
“I really am glad you’re okay, Amelia.”
The mayor buttons his jacket and walks toward the door. Richard follows.
“Mrs. Finch, thank you for having us in your home tonight. It’s always nice to see you.”
The mayor reaches out and shakes her hand.
She dips her chin. “Very kind of you to check in on us.”
My mom begins walking toward the foyer as well, but Richard holds up his hand for her to stop. “You might want to stay back. The second I open this door, those ‘bastards’ out there are going to attack.” For the first time, I notice the dark shadows beneath his eyes.
Richard brushes the lapels on the mayor’s jacket. The mayor smiles, showing his teeth, as Richard bends his knees to check them—for food or coffee stains, I’m not sure. I can’t believe I’m witnessing one grown man groom another.
The mayor slicks down the hair on either side of his head, as if a strand might have fallen out of place during his relatively brief stay, before Richard gives him a head nod indicating he’s ready.
The mayor winks. “Good night.”
Richard waves, an almost awkward gesture, before opening the door. Once they’re outside, lights flash and glare like an out of control nightclub I don’t want to be anywhere near.
I wait for my mom to scold me for being rude, but she’s already walking toward the living room. She grabs the remote and turns the TV volume louder. We watch the mayor as he stands on our front porch fielding questions—mostly about me.
He holds up his hands to quiet them. Richard stands off to the side as if in deference.
“Miss Finch is doing as well as can be expected right now. This past Saturday was a difficult day for her and for this city. As I told Miss Finch, we will continue our zero-tolerance policy toward gang violence and work to bring Mr. Dopney’s attackers to justice.”
The mayor pauses, allowing several reporters to shout further questions. One woman, louder than the rest, gets his attention. “Mayor, do you believe she was there to honor her father and that her encounter with the Death Mob was coincidental?”
The mayor smiles. “I have no reason to believe Miss Finch is gang affiliated, so yes, of course I believe her.”
“What about her relationship with your son?”
Richard steps forward, signaling to the mayor that his time is up.
“If you’ll all excuse me, I must be getting home to my own family.”
Richard clears a path through the reporters, who continue to shout questions that the mayor ignores. Their voices seep through the brick and echo on TV. Now I’m sure the mayor only came here for his photo op.
“Your dad and I—” my mom starts, and then seems to get stuck on how to finish. She turns off the TV and heads to the kitchen, where she grabs her full chai tea latte and tosses it into the trash. “We voted for the other guy.”
CHAPTER 13
My cell buzzes like it’s having a seizure, pulling me from a deep sleep. I should mute it or chuck it across the room, but my arms are heavy. The noise needs to go away so I can drift back to sleep in a world where my head doesn’t hurt and I don’t have to think.
Like a puppy who wants to be fed, my phone won’t shut up. This is exactly why I don’t have a dog. With my head planted in my pillow, I slap the nightstand three times before reaching it.
Adam. Of course.
Grunting, I roll onto my back and brush the hair from my face. I can almost hear the panic in his voice as I scroll through the texts he’s fired off in rapid succession.
Broke into attendance. Why rn’t u @ school?
What happened last nite?
LIA!!! Where r u??
Googled u. READ ur ditching school today.
Our friendship has hit a new low.
It’s 10:15. Adam’s in the middle of English class, breaking into the school’s attendance records, texting me, and likely pissing off Mrs. Greenberg. Knowing Adam, he’s not discreet about it either.
taking a personal day.
Seconds after I hit send, Adam texts back: Something I should no b4 press. BFF rights!!
I chuck my phone at the lump of covers. I love Adam, but I’m not getting into it with him right now. He doesn’t understand failure. How heavy that weight can feel. How it threatens my sanity.
I had pictures of the Swarm—of Lip Spikes. Despite his hood and glasses, I caught his face when he lifted his head. Lip Spikes should be locked in a county jail.
If I would’ve chucked my phone into Lake Michigan, the pics would still be online. I should’ve planned a better escape. Or used a stolen card to sign in to the computers at the library.
I shove a pillow over my face and scream. It’s muffled and strangled—not like Dopney’s. When he cried out for help, it was terror-stricken, like he knew he was going to die.
And I did nothing.
Sounds of the attack trickle into my head: Tourists shrieking. The Swarm cheering. Dopney wailing, howling in the center of the pit.
I bite the cotton fabric and sob into it. I picture Dopney’s face—the one shown in all the news reports. Dark hair and scruff. Bright blue eyes. And his smile. That smile haunts me most. Dopney looked like the friendly type. I bet he went out of his way for people—offered them rides, gave money to the homeless, walked his neighbor’s dogs when they were out of town. He wouldn’t have stood forty feet away while someone was getting pummeled to death and allowed it to happen.
The pain of it all writhes inside me as I cry like a five-year-old who’s fallen off her bike. Like Dopney’s family is probably crying over his unconscious body. Like I cried two years ago when some nameless doctor in teal scrubs pronounced my dad dead.
After my dad’s death, I cried every night for months. I became skittish. Couldn’t handle being alone. I’d go days without showering to avoid the reeling thoughts.
I promised myself I’d never be that girl again. And despite everything that’s happened in the last several days shoving me toward that breaking point, that’s one promise I still will not break.
Wiping my eyes, I slide out of my sheets and make my way to the front of the house. My mom’s room is empty and gray despite the sunlight seeping in through the cracks of the closed blinds. Her bed is made, the comforter tight and creaseless across the mattress. My father’s picture, free of dust, sits at the perfect angle toward her bed. While my floor is littered with dust bunnies and week-old clothes, hers is spotless. Immaculate.
I tiptoe across the hardwood to the window as if the reporters outside have secret X-ray cameras that might detect me. Careful not to move the blinds, I peek through the crevices for any sign of news crews. I spot three, a significant cutback. Still, their presence aggravates me.
Last night before I fell asleep, three different networks posted pictures of me with Cullen Henking and called our speculated relationship “breaking news.”
Because that’s what our city should be focusing on.
I peek one more time, just to be sure. No Escalade.
Grabbing a bra, I loop my hair in a constricted ponytail on top of my head and brush my teeth. I ignore the new bottles of magnesium spray and lavender soap, my mom’s idea of calming agents that she’s strategically placed next to the sink, and head downstairs.
Today isn’t about resting. Or relaxing. Despite my mom’s not-so-subtle hints.
According to my dad’s files, he’d traced most of the Death Mob’s victims back to a city resident. The connections were obscure—a daughter’s ex-boyfriend, an old college roommate, a former colleague. One time the Swarm attacked an old woman who barely spoke English. That one really fired people up. My dad discovered she was a childhood nanny to a city alderman.
If my dad’s theory was right and all the attacks were targeted, the Swarm wanted to warn or get revenge on whoever Dopney was connected to. As far as I can tell, my dad couldn’t figure out their motive beyond that. But maybe he just needed one
more connection.
I grab a bowl of Raisin Bran and head to the living room—a room, according to my mom, reserved for sitting, not eating, as if I might spill white milk on her white linen couches and ruin them. Sitting cross-legged on the floor at the edge of our square coffee table, I pull my laptop over.
With the Swarm likely monitoring my online activity, I can’t exactly search “Why was Dopney in Chicago.” But reading articles about the attack and its victim is hardly unreasonable. It’d be more suspicious if I was avoiding updates.
I type “Jeremiah Dopney,” producing over six hundred thousand hits. I click the first link from the Tribune posted an hour ago and shovel a spoonful of cereal into my mouth.
The article says a whole lot of nothing. Dopney . . . still in the ICU . . . family with him . . . It’s long. Redundant. No mention of his trip or why he was visiting Chicago. I skim for his chance of survival, which is shared at the very bottom. “The next forty-eight hours will be crucial for Dopney as doctors work to restructure his jaw and assess the long-term effects of his injuries. He remains in a drug-induced coma until his future becomes clearer.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, realizing how unprepared I am to spend the day reading articles about Dopney and the attack I didn’t prevent.
But it’s necessary.
Drumming my fingers on the base of the computer, my nails click the aluminum in a speckled cadence as I skim through the next few sites. Most of the articles mention me and my dad and sound more like tabloids than serious reporting. One even speculates my involvement with gangs.
I snort. Of course they’d go there.
At some point, I notice the small wooden box resting on the table. Lifting the lid, I find stainless steel Chinese medicine balls. Another passive-aggressive gift implying I’m too stressed. That I might have another asthma attack. The lid thuds shut. I shove the box, which skids across the table.
Every Stolen Breath Page 10
