Every Stolen Breath

by Kimberly Gabriel

  “You took pictures of me with my phone outside that window and left the articles to threaten me.”

  “You didn’t exactly listen.” He steps closer, looming over me. A shiver runs along the base of my neck. “You’re running around the city daring them to kill you.”

  “Like you’re daring me to turn you in?”

  “There is a car parked down the street watching your house. They are following you, monitoring online activity, noting where you go, who you talk to. In case they want to hurt someone you care about.”

  “Who’s they?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Of course he knows. He has to. I lift my phone, threatening the 911 call again.

  “You won’t get answers if you do that.” Ryan’s expression is serious. Sterile.

  “Then tell me who I should be afraid of. Who’s in charge?”

  “I don’t know. No one does.”

  I narrow my eyes. He’s lying. “How can you not—”

  He lowers his voice and cuts me off. “I was trying to help your dad figure that out.”

  I blink several times. It’s not what I anticipated. Every scenario I concocted in my head explaining the relationship between Ryan and my dad involved Ryan cutting a deal with my dad to avoid punishment for whatever crime he committed. My dad made them all the time.

  I lower the phone, keeping it clutched in my hand, ready to hit send any second.

  Ryan scratches the back of his neck just beneath his hairline. He props the broom and dustpan against the French doors and walks toward me, dwarfing me with his size. He perches on the coffee table and gestures for me to sit in the armchair. Across from him. Face to face, captured beneath his gaze. I push back against the cushions, creating distance between us.

  “I wanted out,” he says, his voice low and rough.

  I square my shoulders, scrutinize his face, looking for the smallest tic to indicate he’s lying. People always give away their lies in their faces.

  Ryan looks down at his hands. The thumb of his right hand massages the palm of his left hand, like he’s trying to clear away a smudge. “Your dad thought he could help me.”

  “Why did you need help?”

  He glares at me with the accusation I’m stupid for asking such an obvious question. “The people running the Swarm are dangerous. Those articles weren’t hypotheticals. The guy they stabbed and threw in the river was a beat reporter looking into the attacks. And the man by the Metra tracks? He worked for your dad.”

  The body was found only a year ago. Had someone in my dad’s office continued the case? After his death? I thought everyone dismissed his work, abandoned it.

  “You can’t just decide you want out and expect them to be okay with that.” He clasps his hands together. His knuckles turn white. “These people do whatever it takes to get their way.”

  He defends himself with anger and raw emotion, like he’s scared, which I didn’t expect. He’s been alert and decisive in situations that have paralyzed me.

  “I used to come here in the middle of the night and tell your dad what I knew. Every Monday.”

  I try to picture Ryan hanging out in my living room with my dad. He was protective when it came to my mom’s and my involvement. Wasn’t he? Would he really have arranged clandestine meetings in our house with a guy from the Swarm while my mom and I slept upstairs? “He wouldn’t have allowed that,” I say, wanting to believe the claim.

  Ryan shrugs his left shoulder and looks at his lap. “He thought it was the safest way to meet.”

  “For who?”

  Ryan’s expression deadpans. His ability to wipe his face clear of all expression unnerves me. “We were careful,” he says after another long pause. His lips remain in a perfect straight line. “I snuck in through your basement. We met in his office.”

  “What sort of things did you tell him?”

  For several seconds, I think he won’t respond.

  Ryan rubs his palms back and forth on his knees. “I described the attacks, how we were notified, how we got involved.”

  A flurry of thoughts and facts rush my head. References in my dad’s case files, particularly to a man named Paul who served as my dad’s lead witness, begin to have meaning. I try to connect invisible dots and can’t help but wonder if Ryan and Paul are the same person.

  “How did you get involved?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  His vague response infuriates me. “So is my life, if you haven’t noticed.”

  Like everyone else, he assumes I’m not smart enough or tough enough to handle the truth. The whole thing pisses me off—that he knew my dad, that they met in secret, that it all happened right under my nose.

  “Did you know the Swarm was planning to attack him?”

  “No.” The word is hard. His nostrils flare. “I knew there would be an attack. I had no idea it would be on him.” His eyes search the floor. He shakes his head and exhales. The skin is so tight against his knuckles, I can make out each bone and muscle beneath its almost translucent surface. Ryan closes his eyes like it’s some deliberate, meditative reaction before leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “And if I did,” he says, “I would have warned him.” His eyes look into mine like they share the pain of my father’s death. “Your dad meant a lot to me.”

  I clench my teeth. Swallow. I’m so used to people slandering him when they talk about him.

  For the first few weeks after his death, the city honored my dad as one of the county’s best chief prosecutors, who put away terrorists, drug traffickers, contract murderers. But then the media’s focus turned bitter. It started with a cheap shot: someone called his courtroom flair sanctimonious. Then like an infectious disease, the smear campaign spread. Critics said the evidence against Morrell was circumstantial. My dad was called a media hog who only pursued the case for the notoriety, citing his Porsche, his tailored suits, and his designer shoes as evidence. He was blamed for Morrell’s death and defamed until his friends and coworkers distanced themselves from his memory, leaving no one left to defend him but me and my mom.

  “He meant a lot to me too.” The words come out garbled and sad.

  Ryan nods like he understands, without saying anything artificial to cheer me up or make me feel better like everyone else tries to do any time my dad is mentioned.

  It rips at my chest like the picking of an open wound—how much I miss my dad, how lonely I’ve been since his death, how more than anything I want the people responsible for his murder to rot in prison for the rest of their evil, horrible lives.

  An image of myself slumped in this same chair after my father’s death flashes through my mind. My arms at my sides in a state of surrender, like some dark force had drained me of energy and life. I push it away, take a deep breath, and bury the pain like always.

  Ryan’s foot brushes against my injured one and lingers. He doesn’t seem to notice.

  “How did I end up on the mayor’s dock?”

  Ryan clears his throat. “I didn’t throw you far enough off the pier. When you went into the water, you didn’t come back up.”

  “You jumped in.”

  “When I brought you to the surface, you started coughing right away, but your breathing was rapid.” He rakes his hands through his short dark hair. “I swam as fast as I could away from the pier before anyone saw you, but you needed help.”

  “So you dumped me on the mayor’s dock?”

  “I didn’t have many options. I had no idea how long you had without your inhaler.”

  “How did you know about my asthma?”

  “I check in on you,” he says. “Sometimes. After your dad died, I didn’t know if they’d go after you or your mom.”

  He doesn’t flinch or look away or give any hint that he’s making it all up.

  The rhythmic whirl from the oscillating fan fills the room. I wish he would’ve worn his ratty sweatshirt instead of something so normal looking. My foot throbs where it touches his. When I can’t take it
anymore, I pull it away, setting it on the coffee table. I expect him to scoot over so my calf isn’t pressed against his hip, but he doesn’t. My entire leg begins prickling.

  “I took pictures and videos of the attack. Did you erase them?”

  He nods.

  “They were good ones.” I tried to recover them, but he’d been thorough wiping them from my phone and the cloud.

  His eyes look so intently into mine I’m tempted to look away. “If they found out you had those images, you’d be dead.” He pauses, allowing the weight of his words to sink in. “All those people on Navy Pier, taking pictures, and the cops don’t have anything? The Swarm is good at covering its tracks.” Ryan scoots closer, brushing against my leg, a detail I’m trying hard to ignore. “I need to know if you answered the tweet about the attack.” There’s an edge to his voice, like everything rides on how I respond.

  Answered the tweet? I shake my head and pretend to know what he’s talking about.

  “If you signed in, if they knew you’d be there . . .”

  “I didn’t.” My words are tiny and weak as my head reels with the implications of what he’s saying. “Did you?” I have no idea what I’m asking, but I try to look assured, hoping his answer reveals something. At this point, I’m desperate for anything that could turn into a lead.

  “I didn’t have a choice.” His voice is low and remorseful. His eyes stay hard.

  Captured beneath his stare, I fight the urge to squirm beneath it.

  “They’re trying to figure out how much you know.”

  “I know the Latino gang isn’t behind it.”

  “Don’t repeat that. Not to anyone. You need to prove you’re not a threat or that you’re scared out of your mind and won’t say anything.”

  “That killing me would be more complicated for them than keeping me alive,” I say. I’ve spent the last two years finding out everything I can about the Death Mob. Now everyone expects me to stop cold turkey like a chain-smoker who just found out she has cancer. It’s not that simple.

  Ryan points to my necklace—the one my dad gave me a few weeks before he died. “I saw your dad the night he gave that to you.”

  I reach for the silver pendant, tracing the imprinted four-leaf clover with my index finger.

  “He said he didn’t believe in luck, but he’d do anything to protect you from the bad guys.”

  A sting forms behind my eyes. I clench my stomach to keep from crying. My dad was well-connected. Made promises. Might have been able to protect Ryan if he really wanted out like he claims. But the sentimental way Ryan talks about my dad indicates he might have known a more personal side to him. The man I knew, who ate Lucky Charms and sat cross-legged with me on our living room floor when we ate our cereal, who taught me how to water ski and picnicked with me at the outdoor concerts in Grant Park.

  Most people never got the chance to see that side of him.

  “Your dad didn’t scare easily, but he was scared for you.”

  I remember the night he came home and put a tiny brown box in front of me at the dinette table while I was studying. He stood across from me with his hands tucked into his pockets, waiting for me to acknowledge it. Deeply etched lines surrounded his eyes and the corners of his mouth. His hair seemed grayer, and I remember realizing how much of a toll this case was taking on him. He smiled and nodded at the box. “Just a little something.”

  I opened it to find the necklace, its simple silver disk resting on a cotton square.

  “For luck,” he said as I lifted it out of the box and let it twist around my fingers.

  Instead of thanking him or telling him how perfect it was, I said, “You don’t believe in luck.”

  He walked around the table, lifted the chain from my hands, and fastened it around my neck. “I’m pretty lucky to have you,” he said, kissing the crown of my head. Without another word, he went upstairs to change out of his suit.

  I wore the necklace every day after that.

  Ryan looks down at my leg touching his thigh as if noticing it for the first time. He and my dad might have been close, and Ryan might have saved my life because of it. But that doesn’t make Ryan innocent.

  “Have you ever hit anyone during the attacks?”

  Ryan’s jaw clenches, making his face look hard and angular. “Yes.” His knuckles turn white again. I imagine his hands covered with the blood of someone helpless—an unsuspecting tourist visiting Chicago for fun, only to be attacked by a mob of savage teenagers. I fight back the urge to flee. Those hands also pulled me from Lake Michigan and kept me afloat for a mile away from the attack.

  Ryan catches me staring at them. He wipes his hands on his pants and stands without looking at me. “Your mom might come home for lunch.” He retrieves the broom and dustpan resting against the French doors. The glass tinkles as he begins sweeping it into a pile.

  She’ll be at a luncheon today for the art gallery, but I don’t correct him. “I can clean up my own mess.” I stand less gracefully.

  He doesn’t look my way. “Sit down.”

  Just as I’m about to protest, he adds, “If you need to run for your life, it’d be good if you’re able to do it.”

  Between my slashed foot, my concussed head, and my crap lungs, I’m not sure I could outrun a sloth if it decided to take me down.

  I sink back into the white armchair and watch Ryan sweep my mom’s floor. “Does the name Paul mean anything to you?”

  Ryan’s shoulders drop. He turns and looks at me as if he’s trying to read into the question. “Why?”

  I try to sound nonchalant. “Just trying to make sense of everything.”

  Ryan shuffles a piece of glass into the dustpan with his foot. “He was my older brother.”

  My chest tightens. “Was?”

  Ryan keeps sweeping as if the conversation is trivial. “He died when I was two.” The strain in his voice chips away at my defenses.

  “How did he die?”

  Ryan’s movement hitches, then stops altogether. “Asthma attack.”

  He keeps his head down, sweeping, while I avert my gaze and remind myself to breathe.

  When he’s done, he returns the broom and dustpan to its place in our pantry. Just as he’s about to walk out our French doors, he pauses and stares at me. His lips part slightly.

  The air between us bristles as I anticipate whatever is about to come next, like it might change everything between us.

  But Ryan’s eyes drop, and he leaves without saying anything at all.

  CHAPTER 16

  After Ryan leaves, I prop my foot on the couch and try to distract myself, but bad daytime TV only lasts so long. Every time I try to make sense of his nightly meetings with my dad or his insinuation that the Swarm has some sort of sign-in process for the attacks, I’m filled with a nervous energy that muddles my thoughts.

  Too restless to sit, I hobble down the back stairs to take out the trash. Glass clinks around the bag, keeping time with my uneven cadence. Each step is awkward, but manageable if I shift my weight to the outer edge of my foot—at least that’s what I tell myself.

  I open the door of our heavy wooden gate. I’m about to toss the bag like I do every night when I notice a thick, padded manila envelope lying on top of one of our trash bins.

  I look both ways down the narrow drive, stand on my tiptoes to check the neighbors’ yards past the fences. No one is around. The alley is empty.

  The package isn’t addressed.

  A voice in my head begs me to leave it alone, to dump the trash in someone else’s bin and hide in my house for the rest of the day. It’s late afternoon. Neighbors will be coming home soon. My mom.

  Instead, I reach for the envelope, a slight tremor in my hands. I try to convince myself it’s empty—a discarded piece of trash. But as soon as I pick it up, I notice how heavy it is. And it’s sealed.

  I throw the trash inside the bin, craning my neck left and right. Still no movement in the alley. The air is stale, warm, still. I wipe my p
alms on my pajama pants before pulling the seal open and peeking at what’s inside. I can’t tell. I tear the rest open and pull out a black iPad.

  My heart thumps. It’s a trap—the Swarm giving me a device so they can record my activity.

  But I’m not that naïve. No one is. They’d have to know that.

  My back tenses as I press the wake button to light up the screen. A video appears with the words press play projecting across the title page.

  My breathing quickens. This has to be a video of me, caught doing something they don’t want me doing. Going to the library? Meeting with Ryan? They’ve seen Emi Vega’s interview and are sending me a message.

  Again, the tiny voice in my head begs me to run, to call the cops, to do anything other than follow its instructions.

  But it’s a futile argument. There’s no way I’ll walk away now.

  I press play.

  A figure emerges, heading down the city sidewalk past a stone office building. Four American flags jut from its ledge over a row of giant revolving doors. My stomach makes a slow roll. I recognize him by the way he walks—it’s my dad.

  A pang of longing shoots through my chest. On the video, my dad scrolls through his cell with one hand and clutches his messenger bag with the other. His sandy brown hair ripples in the wind.

  I realize what’s about to happen a split second before it does as three Initiators stomp toward him.

  He doesn’t see them. My dad’s face relaxes. He smiles at something on his phone.

  The lead guy, bigger than my dad, winds up his hand to punch. He swings. My dad flinches away, dodging the hit. The second guy, Lip Spikes, anticipates it and punches him from the other direction. My dad’s glasses fly from his face. He falls, his body crashing against the sidewalk.

  A strangled cry catches in my throat.

  Lip Spikes punches him in the face. Again. And again. I wince and gasp as the Swarm materializes out of nowhere. Dozens of them. They surround my dad in a matter of seconds.

  Screaming erupts. I can’t see them. But I hear them. Evening commuters run in the opposite direction, fending for themselves.

  The Swarm closes in. My dad protects his head as Lip Spikes kicks him in the gut so hard that I’m sure something inside him burst.