And then my dad’s gone. Blocked from the camera’s view.
I drop the iPad.
Double over. Heaving.
Anguish rips through my body as if I’m the one being attacked. The world spins as horror and shock and images eat me alive. The smile on his face before he’s taken down. The blow to his cheek he never saw coming. The punches and kicks that tortured him in his final moments.
I try to picture Hana, like it has any chance of calming me or steadying me or preventing me from spiraling, but every detail of its sky or beach has escaped me.
Then realization hits.
Someone left this for me. Wanted me to suffer. Wanted me to watch my dad pummeled to death as some threat or warning to scare me into submission. These people murdered my father for trying to stop them. And they wanted to remind me of that in the most gruesome way possible. For what? To cripple me? To send me to the psychiatric center where I can’t pursue them?
Something coppery and rancid wafts into the alley.
Blood. My dad’s blood.
I hold my breath. Shake my head. No, it isn’t real.
Dopney’s screams echo from inside the pit.
Not. Real.
I shut my eyes. Count backward. Bury the delusions. Push them out of my head.
Five . . .
My dad moans.
Four . . .
His desperation.
Three . . .
Torture.
Two . . .
The Swarm cheers.
One.
My eyes wrench open to where the iPad lies on the ground. File Corrupt flashes on the screen. Incessant beeping punctures the empty alley. The file is being erased. I grab the iPad and slam it against the brick lining of our garage. Glass pops, shatters, and clinks across the gravel.
I chuck the device in our neighbor’s trash bin, making sure that thing stays away from my house and my mom and me. I hate them. I hate them all. The ones who attacked my dad, those who sent me this video, and whoever is calling these sick and twisted shots. Hot tears flood my eyes. I scour the alley one more time, wondering who’s watching, who is reveling in my torment right now. Bursts of air pump in and out of my nose. I clench every trembling nerve and muscle, determined to keep it all in. Balling my hands at my side, my nails digging into my palms, I march, one foot in front of the other, back into my house, where I collapse behind my locked door and crumble into a million pieces.
CHAPTER 17
I wake the next morning, heavy and drained, like I’m experiencing the morning after my father’s murder all over again. Only this time, instead of imagining what his final moments were like, I relive them. Every vivid detail. In a way that happy thoughts can’t replace. He was smiling right before the first hit. At what? A text? From me? My mom? Lip Spike’s blow batters him. My dad’s body slams against the concrete. His face, once handsome, pummeled, bleeding.
I bury my head in my pillow. Part of me wants to sink into the down feathers and sleep away the next few years of my life. Free of thinking and memories and agonizing pain that shoots through every part of my body.
The Swarm would love for that to happen—it’s what they’re hoping for.
With every part of me broken and resistant, I push my head and shoulders off the pillow. I slide out of bed, determined to start my day, go to school, do whatever they’d least expect.
The Death Mob will not control me.
For the first time in my life, I dab concealer beneath my eyes to hide the red puffiness and I do a treatment without my mom’s prodding. I grab an outfit off my floor—something I wore last week or this week, I forget—and limp down the stairs.
Spinning around the staircase, I catch a shadow as it ducks into my dad’s office. A silver glint flashes in the light from the spikes in his chin.
I squeeze my eyes shut, tighten my grip on the banister, and ground myself. I concentrate on the cool, smooth wood beneath my hand. The gurgling of our Keurig machine as it drains water into a cup. The pungent smell of my mom’s Mahogany coffee mixed with the faint perfumed scent of her face cream. These things are real. The shadow, I rationalize, is not.
When I step into the kitchen, my mind already feels stronger. My mom, on the other hand, pinches the skin between her eyes and leans over her coffee on the granite peninsula. “You should stay home and rest,” she says to her cup.
I pour myself a glass of juice. “I’m fine,” I say, already believing it. “I’ll stay off my foot.”
She looks me over. The cut on my foot. The stitches on my head. My torso expanding and contracting, taking in air like it should. “Your head and lungs could use an extra day too.”
Like she needs to remind me that my body is defective.
My mom, always put together, wears an ivory cashmere sweater and pencil skirt. Her golden hair is slicked back in a ponytail, but her eyes are squinted like she’s battling a migraine. She presses her palms against the countertop for support as she stands. “I called Dr. Ericson’s office. They said he could squeeze you in on Monday.”
Dr. What’s-His-Name. “No.”
She reaches out and puts her hand on mine. “You might need someone to talk to.”
I glance at her, caught off guard. It’s a plea, not a command, not a way to control all the things she can’t.
How do I tell her I’m better off on my own? Ericson might have given me a few good strategies to fight my demons, but even before the whole therapeutic-setting debacle, his weekly sessions were draining and ineffective. His idea of talking was to repeatedly prod about my nonexistent relationship with the dead twin sister I never met. With my dad savagely murdered, he wanted to talk about things that didn’t matter, and I don’t have time for that right now. I roll my shoulders back. “I’m fine.”
She wraps her fingers around my hand and squeezes. “No one’s expecting you to do this alone.” She waits, giving me a chance to respond, but I don’t know how to. We’ve dealt with everything so differently and for such a long time, I have no idea how to begin bridging that gap.
Her hand slides from mine and just like that, the moment has passed. She walks to her purse and rummages through it. Pulling two twenties out of her wallet, she lets them drop on the counter like leaves falling from a tree. “At least take a cab today.”
I have a sudden urge to warn her. Of what, exactly, I’m not sure. Don’t open any random packages delivered to the house? Don’t walk alone down our back alley? Don’t be surprised if someone tries to kill me today?
“Sorry again. About the cabinet.”
“Don’t think you’re off the hook,” she says, heading back upstairs for unnecessary last-minute touch ups.
I grab the money off the counter. Closing my eyes, I allow myself one more moment of gut-wrenching self-pity. Then, without anyone’s help, I swallow it down, sneak out the back door, and hobble down the stairs.
Mist floats in thick swells like waves around our backyard and alley. Like Pavlov’s dog, the second I see it, my lungs start burning. Each inhale scrapes against the back of my throat despite my morning cocktail on the nebulizer.
I follow the brick pavers that cut a path across our yard and imagine heavy clouds concealing the city’s height, lingering around the tops of buildings on Michigan Avenue just a mile or so in the distance.
Our back gate creaks when I open it. Before passing through, I strain every sense, scrutinizing the alley for anything that feels off. A chill creeps along the back of my neck, but I ignore it. It’s just the weather.
Shifting my backpack on my shoulders, I head toward the nearest street. I make it two steps before the gate slams behind me, clanging against its latch. The pop cracks like a gunshot. I jolt back, stumbling on my injured foot. Stinging sears through me the moment I press down.
Determined to get out of the alley, I walk as fast as I can. Gravel crunches beneath my feet in an uneven cadence as I curse my beat-up body and the air for being so chilly and damp.
At the side street, th
e mist thins and hovers low over the road. Aside from that, it’s empty. No movement on the one-way street or its sidewalks. I hang a left and head toward the nearest intersection for a cab, hobbling along like a complete idiot at a ridiculous, slow pace. My foot still burns, but like everything else, eventually I’ll become numb to the pain.
I hone in on my destination, the heavy morning traffic two blocks away. As I do, someone turns the corner heading toward me on the sidewalk.
I freeze.
The deliberate way he walks at me. His height. His face dipped beneath a baseball cap.
He’s part of the Swarm.
A block and a half away, I can’t outrun him. Even without an injured foot, I won’t make it home before he chases me down. My eyes flit up and down the street. The nearest house—I need to run to it, bang on the door, hope someone answers in time.
Before my legs have time to react, he lifts his head.
Ryan.
I cough, unaware I’d been holding my breath.
Yesterday, when I heard his voice on my back porch, I was skeptical, uneasy about opening the door. But as my heart rate steadies, relief settles over me at seeing him today.
I don’t know why. Because he hates the Swarm—or so he claimed? Because he wanted out? Because he didn’t try to make excuses or defend himself for the horrible things he’d done? Because he saw a side of my dad that I thought I’d lost? My dad must have trusted him if he was willing to harbor him in our home at night. As the distance between us closes, I can’t decide whether I’m ready to trust him too.
Ryan’s eyes are relaxed, inviting even. His mouth lifts into a tentative smile, transforming him from someone menacing into someone I’m almost glad to see. I consider telling him about the video. It’s not like I’m going to confide in Dr. What’s-His-Name.
Behind me, tires squeal.
Ryan’s eyes dart past me, his face tightening at a car speeding down the one-way street. He breaks into a sprint, and I know without needing to look the car is for me. I need to move, run, escape, but my legs don’t work. My feet are anchors, stuck to the cement.
Ryan chucks his backpack and closes the space between us faster than seems humanly possible.
Music blares as the car speeds up, getting closer.
How stupid to make its approach so obvious.
And then at thirty yards away, Ryan halts. He ducks into a side alley that’s crammed between brick apartment buildings as the car skids to a stop beside me.
The music thumps in my chest. I turn as the door of a black Lexus springs open and Cullen looks up at me from behind the wheel. “Get in.”
I’m so taken aback, I can’t respond. A second ago I was sure someone was coming to abduct me.
I glance at the alley Ryan turned down. No sight of him—only his discarded backpack lying upside down in someone’s side yard.
“Lia,” Cullen shouts like I’m unable to process what’s happening. “I’m giving you a ride to school. Get in.” He smiles and his whole face lights up, reeking of confidence and making me wonder if he’s rehearsed this look hundreds of times before.
“I’m fine.” I walk away, careful to hide my limp. Putting weight on my foot kills, but I don’t want to look weak in front of Cullen.
He turns down the music. His car rolls alongside me at my snail’s pace.
“C’mon, get in.” He sounds annoyed to ask more than once.
“I said I’m fine.” I’d love to be the first girl to turn him down. “Katie’s picking me up,” I lie. She has a.m. Art Club, but he doesn’t know that.
Cullen snorts. “You’d be safer driving with me.”
I narrow my eyes. “Who are you insulting exactly? Asians? Girls? Or both? I can’t tell.”
Cullen looks amused.
“You missed the cameras. They hang out in front of my house.”
“Lucky for me, there’s a camera crew at school,” he says. “If you’re fine with me talking to them without you, I’ll take off. Speak on your behalf. A lot of people are interested in us right now.”
I halt. He sounds congenial, but he’s threatening me. I’m sure of it. If Cullen talks to the press, he’ll say whatever he wants. At best, it’s humiliating. And at worst . . . after that package, I don’t want to consider the worst outcome.
Cullen glances at himself in the rearview mirror. He props his elbow on the middle console and smiles at me, waiting for me to give in.
I close my eyes and think of Adam’s lecture. Right now, my life should be more important than my pride. Despite how much the sight of Cullen disgusts me, my priority should be ensuring Cullen doesn’t make everything worse with the media.
Scanning one more time for any sign of Ryan—nothing—I head toward Cullen’s car. “Can you guarantee I’ll get there in one piece?”
Cullen leans over the passenger’s seat, pressing his hand against his chest. “You have my word.”
I want to walk off, showing him what his word is worth. Instead, I climb in, buckle up, and let the self-loathing begin.
“I will get you there in one piece, and I will do it in record time.” Cullen winks. The car lurches forward as he slams on the gas and turns down the same alley Ryan’s hiding in.
“Where are you going?” I brace myself, worried that we’re going to expose Ryan or hit him. But by the time we take the corner, Ryan is walking, head down, hands tucked into his pockets. Nothing connects him to me or makes him look suspicious. Nothing outs him as the Swarm. He looks normal, like he belongs walking down this alley at this hour of the morning.
Cullen pays him no attention. “Main roads are too crowded at this time of day.”
As we pass Ryan, his eyes flash up at me, making me wish I were trapped in a car with him instead of Cullen, who’s driving like a complete lunatic.
I inhale sharply as Cullen turns down another one-way street, almost hitting two trash bins. “This was a mistake.”
“You’ll get used to it.”
“This is the last time I ever get in a car with you.”
“Lia,” he says in a condescending tone. “If we’re going to be a couple, we’re going to have to start acting like it.”
He narrowly avoids sideswiping a parked car.
“I came with you to end this stupid relationship story.” I should keep going, emphasize my point, but I’m too busy worrying he’s going to hit something. Or someone.
“You need to start reshaping your image.”
Cullen slams on the brakes for a red light. My body lurches forward and catches on the seat belt.
“Excuse me?”
“Vega made you look like a Death Mob stalker. Created a level of suspicion you don’t want,” Cullen says, all serious.
His perception throws me. “You don’t know me or what I want,” I say, my back flattened against the passenger’s seat.
“Sure I do.” He turns toward me while I stay clenched, anticipating the light turning green. “You want the press to go away, which they’re not going to do. Like it or not, you have thousands of people desperate to read anything with your name in it.”
“You realize you’re contradicting yourself.”
“Don’t interrupt. You can bet the press will exploit a citywide audience like that. So either you give them something to talk about, or they’ll start digging.”
My nails claw into the leather. I fixate on the red signal and try to appear nonchalant. “I have nothing to hide.”
“You and I both know you have plenty to hide. But you still have control here.”
I glare at him from the corner of my eye. “What are you talking about?”
“Were you online last night at all? We’re a hit. I woke up with two hundred more followers than I had yesterday. Everyone loves us, and they want more. The press eats that stuff up.”
That’s exactly why I avoided the Internet. Blogs. Social media. Tabloid frenzy. I can only imagine how I’ve been portrayed, dissected, profiled. It’s enough to make me reconsider leaving my hou
se. Ever. Again. And Cullen’s relishing it.
I watch the light, bracing myself for the moment he takes off. “You act like you’re doing this for me.”
“I am.”
“You like the attention.”
“Sure.” He shrugs. “Maybe I’d do it for any girl at our school with sixteen camera crews camped in her front yard.” Cullen turns back to the road and the light, now green. He slams on the gas. The car peels off, and I jam my fists into the seat cushion, fighting to stay upright.
Cullen flashes a smile. “Or maybe I like you.”
I want to vomit. His intentions are one hundred percent self-serving. “You’re a terrible liar.”
“Have you watched your sad attempts at lying? That bit about your reason for being on Navy Pier? You’re lucky I rescued you.”
I refuse to defend myself and give credit to his claim as Cullen swerves in and out of rush hour traffic on the two-lane road.
“Doesn’t matter why I’m doing it. It’s good PR.” He winks. “Which you could use after Vega’s interview.”
We jolt to a stop behind a line of cars and inch our way toward a busy four-way stop.
“Your dad knew how to handle the cameras. I’m sure you inherited some of it.”
He says it with reverence, but his words hit the wrong nerve. “Leave my dad out of this.”
“It’s a compliment. Your dad was smart, an expert at manipulating the media. When he spoke to cameras, he did so in twenty-to thirty-second bites, tailor-made for the evening news. Your dad made bold choices, but he was smart. Everyone in this city knows that.”
He says it like my insides aren’t twisted, like all of that wasn’t eventually used against him. I can only imagine what the media would say if I started flaunting my five minutes of fame. With Cullen Henking of all people.
Cullen’s phone pings. He grabs it from the cup holder and scrolls through texts. “All I’m saying is that a lot of successful people control the spotlight instead of letting it control them. Why wouldn’t you?”
When I was little, my dad and I were watching him on TV one night when I asked him if he was famous. Instead of answering, he loosened his tie and told me it was important for the public to see that those who do wrong get punished.
Every Stolen Breath Page 13
