Every Stolen Breath

by Kimberly Gabriel

  “Before you pretend to prioritize my safety, let me remind you the Benny the Bull hacker has yet to be caught.”

  Freshman year, Adam hacked the United Center’s scoreboard. Every time George Hutchinson went to a Bulls game with his family, the scoreboard displayed a series of anti-bullying messages to George from Benny the Bull among the happy birthday shout-outs. Adam hacked it at least a dozen times—George’s family had season tickets. It was well deserved. George threw Asian slurs at Katie for months. Benny the Bull insured that George left Katie alone.

  My entire body thrums with anticipation. “That’s hardly the same thing.”

  “Sure it is. Everything I do is impressively rerouted through so many encrypted layers, it’s exciting.”

  “That means nothing to me.”

  Adam smirks. “My digital tracks are indecipherable. That’s all you need to know. Keep in mind I found that Twitter IP address for you. These people aren’t that good.”

  A tiny, nagging voice of reason warns me not to encourage him. He shouldn’t be investigating the Swarm. It’s too dangerous. But I’m already hanging on his every word. And he knows it.

  “As I was saying,” Adam continues, “I looked into who’s made the most profit from the Lakefront Project. Wasn’t easy.”

  I grab my pendant and twist it around my finger.

  “Interestingly enough, your stalker friend’s dad made several million along with all the other men in that photo. Just Phase One of the project brought in close to five hundred million in revenue.”

  I’m taken aback by how much is being made from selling off property along Lake Michigan that used to be owned and protected by the city.

  Adam leans in. “Five hundred million, Lia. That’s apparently the price it takes to create and run an organized mob that kills people. And there’s money being hidden—real estate records, property taxes, zoning, city budget. None of it matches up.”

  He’s going too slow. “Who’s profiting the most?” It’s going to be Harry Hewitt. Ryan was wrong, or lied—doesn’t matter. His dad heads it.

  “That’s the thing—the money’s spread out. Plenty of contractors and real estate agents have made a quick dime off selling the property or the construction. Most of them have teenage kids.”

  “Who are forced into the Swarm.” My head feels light and dizzy. Adam has done it. He’s figured out the key players, how they’re all connected, which sounds bigger than even I’d assumed. But all that matters to me right now is the person who heads it all.

  Adam picks at the corner of his iPad case and stares off toward the front of class. Anyone watching him might think he’s studying Mater’s handwritten scrawl on the SmartBoard, but I’ve seen that look hundreds of times. He’s piecing something together.

  “Here’s what I don’t get. The city makes money by selling off property to people who want to live in Chicago, which means they want the city to be desirable. And tourism would only increase the money coming in on top of whatever they’re making off this Lakefront thing.”

  Every inch of me tightens. “Who is it?”

  “So then why scare everyone off with the Swarm? Why make everyone want to get away from the city?” His eyes narrow and focus on one spot across the room, but I don’t care about the opposing objectives of the Swarm and the Lakefront Project.

  “Adam!” I practically scream, shaking him from his daydream. “Who’s in charge?”

  He shrugs. “The mayor.”

  Like it’s the only logical answer, and I should’ve realized that several minutes ago. The classroom chaos recedes into distant background noise, and I become acutely aware of my breathing, the tiny little wheeze that underlies every breath I take.

  After Dopney’s attack, the mayor, with his slicked-back hair and his thousand-dollar suit, stood behind a podium and promised to pursue Dopney’s attackers. He sat at my dining room table, brought me coffee drinks, claimed we were on the same side, fighting the same battle. He praised my father’s work after he had my father murdered. My face grows hot as I think of how close I came to telling him everything I knew.

  A familiar laugh draws me back to the present.

  Cullen Henking cackles on the other side of the room. Some girl sits in his lap with her arm around his neck. He’s holding a pencil out of her reach in some stupid, flirtatious middle school game of keep-away.

  I glare at him.

  The girl presses her chest against his and reaches for the pencil in his outstretched hand, extending well beyond his back.

  Cullen’s eyes catch mine. His smile widens. He shrugs as if I’m glaring at him because I’m some brainless, jealous schoolgirl, and he hands over the pencil. Mr. Mater walks over to them. He says something that makes her sit in an actual chair next to Cullen instead of on top of him.

  Adam notices me clenching my iPad. “If you want to bash that thing over his head, I won’t stop you.” He turns to the spectacle Cullen has created. “In fact, I’ll take down anyone who tries to get in your way.”

  The girl unleashes a high-pitched giggle, and I’m forced to look away before I hurl myself toward Cullen and gouge out his eyes.

  Adam lowers his voice. “Mob attacks started eleven years ago. About two years before Henking ran for office. His entire campaign revolved around destroying the Swarm and rebuilding tourism in our city through the Lakefront Project.”

  “His house was the first to be built, wasn’t it?” I ask in a voice that doesn’t feel like my own. I hate Cullen Henking. Now more than ever.

  Like Adam can read my mind, he says, “Whether he knows his dad is a murderous tyrant or not, Cullen’s still a douchebag.”

  The blonde next to him leans over her desk and puts one hand on Cullen’s forearm. His behavior has always been disgusting and self-indulgent. Helping his face appear in every Chicago newspaper and news program made it worse.

  My mom dismissed the mayor when he left our house. Ryan told me he didn’t like me hanging out with Cullen Henking, which I mistook as a jealous thing. Stupid. Foolish. How did I not figure this out? How did I not see this coming? Instead, I helped Cullen and his dad look like city heroes saving a distressed little girl.

  “Don’t look now, but Douchebag Boy is headed our way.”

  Cullen saunters over, a smug, condescending smile on his face. He heads straight for me without breaking eye contact.

  I grit my teeth, keeping my hands locked on my iPad. I don’t trust them and what they might do if Cullen pushes me over the edge.

  Cullen crouches down at my desk. He brushes a chunk of my hair behind my shoulder. “It might be hard—seeing me with someone else.” He stares at my hair and tucks another lock behind my ear.

  I grip the iPad tighter. It takes everything I have not to reach out and choke him.

  “Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate you.”

  The tendons in my arms are on the verge of snapping. He makes it sound like we slept together. I focus on his mouth. Not his eyes. Still want to gouge those.

  He puts his hand on his chest—a mock heartfelt gesture. “Do you know how many sites have verified me because of you?”

  “It’s almost charming how much you think she actually cares about you,” Adam says. “Although intelligence has never really been your strong suit.”

  Cullen stands. “Straight people have never really been yours. Don’t pretend to understand.”

  “The only thing I don’t understand in this scenario is why you continue wearing that shirt knowing you pit out every time you wear it.”

  Cullen glances at the armpits of his collared shirt. Adam snickers.

  Hundreds of things run through my mind as I scramble for something to say. Something to put him in his place. Shame him. Before I decide on anything cohesive, the words squeeze out between my clenched teeth. “Your father . . .”

  Cullen tugs at his collar, straightening his shirt. “What about him?”

  “He won’t get away with any of it,” I say under my breath.

/>   Cullen smiles. It’s arrogant, dimpled. “I don’t mean to hurt you, Lia.” He leans over and kisses my head. “I know you sometimes confuse fantasy and reality.” He chuckles under his breath, walking back to his circle of groupies on the other side of the room.

  “I’m all for making him feel inferior, but if Cullen is in on the whole Death Mob thing, that might have been taking it a little too far,” Adam says.

  His phone chimes. “From here on out, we leave the comebacks to me.”

  I should regret what I’ve said, that I’ve tipped my hand. I spent the last few weeks acting like I didn’t care about the Death Mob. But as Cullen takes a seat across the room, all I can think about is how I will not let any of them get away with what they’ve done.

  A cluster of students in the far-right corner of the room all turn at once. They stare at me. One girl reads to the rest of them—something from her tablet. For whatever reason, I’m sure it has nothing to do with Cullen.

  Even Katie is holding her phone and staring at me from across the room with disbelief.

  Something’s going on.

  Adam pulls his phone out of his pocket to read the incoming texts. His face grows serious. He looks up. I shrink beneath everyone’s gaze as I wait for him to spill it.

  “Jeremiah Dopney,” Adam says. “He’s dead.”

  CHAPTER 22

  Look at us. It’s almost like we’re real people living in a fun city again,” Adam says.

  I twist my Thai noodles around my chopsticks and shovel the mini beehive into my mouth. Green onions, cilantro, and lime assault me all at once.

  I should be at home, curled up on my couch, watching some mindless show that doesn’t require participation. Mourning. Trying to forget the echoes of Dopney’s screams as the Swarm closed in on him. The noises are what haunt me the most—the waves crashing, the crowd shuffling and jeering, the dull smack of each hit as they beat him in the center of their pit. I don’t think I heard the actual blows during the attack, but now they rattle around my head, following me wherever I go.

  The sounds become more visceral at night. More than once, I’ve woken drenched in sweat, having dreamt that I was the victim. The Swarm surrounds me, tightening their circle. Lip Spikes throws the first punch, knocking me sideways, and they devour me like piranhas. I’ll writhe in pain in my bed, unable to breathe, until I force my eyes open and concentrate on the photos of Hana taped to my bedroom walls. By focusing on the pictures surrounding me, I avoid succumbing to the nightmares like I did after my dad’s death.

  I overheard my mom on the phone with Dr. What’s-His-Name, telling him about the prints, that I’d enlarged them and hung them like posters around my room—something I had to do when the black rock beach became too hard to visualize. Whatever his reaction—concerned, impressed—no one made me take them down.

  I look at Adam, whose face is relaxed as he says, “I can’t even remember the last time we came.”

  I nod. Force a smile. If it weren’t Adam’s birthday, I wouldn’t be here. Pretending.

  Adam and I sit in a red vinyl booth pushed against the back corner, next to the kitchen’s constant noise and commotion. A stark contrast to our usual spot against the front windows, where we sat almost once a week this past summer. We called it our weekly Thai fix. That feels like forever ago. Another lifetime.

  Outside, commuters shuffle past one another on their way home from work. Heads down, arms tucked against their bodies. They walk at a brisk pace. One man wearing a peacoat and stocking cap hugs the window. His arm scrapes against it as he passes. His head darts around like it’s tinged with panic. It’s as if the city has suddenly realized that flash attacks are a real and present threat. All it took was Dopney’s death nine days ago for people to finally pay attention. I wonder if his parents resent that. Like I do.

  “Before the attack . . .”

  Adam shakes his head. “Nope—that’s against the rules.”

  I force another beehive of noodles into my mouth. “You nixed so many things we could talk about at dinner, the only things left are weather, religion, and politics,” I say, unable to swallow the food in my mouth. My mom would be appalled.

  “My birthday, my rules. Though now that you mention it, the weather has been odd this year. Eerily and preemptively cold, don’t you think?”

  Adam leans to one side and pulls his phone from his burnt orange corduroy pants. Once again, they’re so tight, I’m shocked he can fit his phone in his pocket. He wears a black turtleneck and matching leather jacket, which he hasn’t taken off. His black eyeliner is a bit thicker and his black nails look freshly painted, making him look more dressed up than usual—something I’m sure he’s going for.

  Adam flips through his phone.

  “Anything from Katie?”

  He shakes his head and glances at me. “Something must have come up.” I can tell by the way he avoids eye contact that Katie doesn’t want to be around me—not that I blame her. I’m a ticking time bomb. Destined to explode. Or implode. It’s only a matter of time.

  At least Katie would have been the better dinner date. I have no idea why he chose to spend the night with me instead.

  Adam sets his phone on the diner-style table and rubs his earlobe between his thumb and forefinger before leaning back against the red vinyl.

  Someone opens the door, ringing the bell attached to it. My attention snaps to a couple wearing matching Burberry scarves. I know before they do they are in the wrong restaurant. The guy leans over the counter and the hostess points to something across the street.

  I twist another pile of noodles around my chopsticks. Once upon a time, this used to be my favorite dish.

  “Seriously,” Adam says. “This is supposed to cheer you up, but it’s only bringing me down.” He rolls his eyes. “All right, Debbie Downer—all topics of conversation are fair play. What are you thinking about?”

  I snort, staring at the Thai noodles I can’t manage to eat. Like I have to say it.

  “Dopney.” He leans across the table. “Just in case that twisted little brain of yours is deluding you—it wasn’t your fault. You know that, right?”

  Of course it was. I know it. He knows it. Eventually, the entire world will realize it. My eyes begin to water.

  “Lia.” He waits until I look up. His deep-set eyes hold my gaze. “You’ll never save the city with all that guilt weighing you down.”

  My eyes drop to avoid crying. Adam’s always been the one who knows me better than anyone. I should tell him that. That he’s my best friend. That I couldn’t survive this, or even high school, without him. When I look back up to say it, Adam’s moved on. He’s tugging on his earlobe again, mesmerized by the clownfish swimming around the fish tank near the kitchen entrance. “Knowing everything you know now, what would you do if you had the date of the next attack?”

  Save the victim. Make Detective Irving listen. Make him promise to rescue the target once the attack starts. No one else can die. Then, I’d go to the location and hide there. When the Initiators delivered the first hit, I’d record it. I would stream it live to every social media site I have so no one could delete my pictures or videos. All my new followers would watch and be disgusted by it. The video would go viral, forcing the FBI to get involved. To take down the mayor, I’d incriminate as many perpetrators as I could, knowing one of them would rat him out—even if that meant exposing Amy London and Ryan. It would force us all to accept the consequences of our actions.

  Of course, admitting all of this would only indicate how much time I’ve spent planning this what-if scenario.

  I shrug my left shoulder.

  “Calling the cops was useless,” Adam says.

  I nod, recalling the receptionist’s condescending voice, assuring she’d pass along my message. Whether she did or not, CPD is so corrupt that I wonder if Irving is too. Nothing came of my dad’s attack. He never responded to any of the messages I left for him. My mom likes him. Seems to trust him, but what if he’s one of the ba
d guys and I’m a bigger fool than I thought?

  “You’ve considerately demonstrated the idiocy behind going down there yourself.”

  I scrutinize Adam’s expression. He’s never been one for hypothetical talk. He looks perfectly at ease, as if we’re talking about how ridiculous our math teacher looks with her failed attempt at pink-tipped hair. “Where are you going with this?”

  Adam sips his Diet Coke. “Nowhere.” He takes another drink. “Just wondering. You ready?” Adam throws money on our bill before I can reach my bag and dig for my wallet.

  “You can’t pay for dinner on your birthday.” I didn’t get him a gift. The least I could do is pick up the tab.

  He stands, pulling the collar of his designer leather jacket tight against his neck and accentuating how attractive he really is. “Get me next time.” Adam walks off, indicating it’s not up for discussion.

  I grab my bag, fling it around my torso, and pull my hat low across my brow. Ducking my head, I follow Adam as he meanders through the packed tables.

  Adam holds the door for me, and we step onto the sidewalk.

  “C’mere,” he says, holding out his arms. An unprecedented gesture.

  “What are you doing? You hate hugs.”

  “As of today, I’m officially more mature. And you look like you need one.”

  I wrap my arms around him and try not to get snot on his shirt—he’d never hug me again. Adam pats me on the back several times, indicating his discomfort. He releases before I do.

  The corners of my mouth flinch. It’s my best attempt at smiling. “I’ll call an Uber,” I say.

  “Don’t be silly. You’re tough, but you still have scary people out there who want you dead. And your stalker boy seems to have abandoned you. Arguing will only delay the inevitable, and I’m dying to get home.”

  “Birthday cake?”

  Adam winks. “Hackers forum.”

  We turn down the street and walk toward Adam’s car a block away.