Every Stolen Breath

by Kimberly Gabriel

  Richard puts his phone into his coat pocket. “We can arrange for you to have something to wear. We’ll send it to your house.”

  “Something that will look good on camera,” I say through clenched teeth, but my words are drowned out by someone shouting nearby. I don’t realize the yelling is aimed at us until I catch my name.

  “Wait! Lia Finch!” Bushy Sideburns repeats as he runs up with the flowers I left in the car. He has a big, goofy smile on his face like he’s being helpful as he holds out the bouquet. “You almost forgot these.”

  I’m about to tell him he can keep them when Richard reaches out and grabs them instead. “Thanks.”

  “Your phone too.” Bushy Sideburns holds out the cell with the twins’ family pictures plastered all over the case for me to grab.

  “That’s not mine.” My face flushes as I try to sound convincing, like I’ve never seen it before and have no idea where it came from.

  Richard stares at me. He’s reading my face. I can feel it. I lift my chin while Bushy Sideburns stands there, holding the stupid phone out for me to take, refusing to turn around and leave with it already.

  Richard grabs the phone from the attendant, watching me the entire time. “This phone isn’t yours?” He glances down at the pictures on the case.

  I shake my head.

  “Isn’t that odd,” Richard says, like he’s piecing it together.

  He taps the screen and stares at the number pad as if trying to decipher the right key code to unlock it. Richard looks back at me, doing my best not to appear guilty.

  “There it is!” A woman leaves the stroller with two screaming children behind with her husband. She runs up to us with Bushy Sideburns still standing there. “That’s mine.” I try to look clueless as Evil Twins’ mom reclaims the phone. “I must have left it on the Ferris wheel.”

  Her red hair blows around her head as she grabs it from Richard, giving him a distrustful look.

  Richard watches me as he lets her take it. Bushy Sideburns and Evil Twins’ mom walk away in separate directions, while Richard tucks his hands into his pockets and flashes a wicked smile. “Next Saturday then. Cullen will pick you up. Seven o’clock. Sharp.” He takes a step back, tapping Cullen on the shoulder like it’s time to go.

  Cullen looks up at me. His face unreadable, or maybe I’m too freaked out about what just happened to read anything right now.

  And then it hits me. I pull out my own phone and call up the calendar.

  Next Saturday. October 20.

  The date of the next attack.

  CHAPTER 26

  What brings you in today?” an overly eager Apple sales associate asks. She stands across a blond wooden table covered with laptops on display. I scrutinize her expression, her body language, gauging whether there’s more to her interest in me than selling me a computer. Maybe a desire to snap my picture. Or maul me.

  “Just looking.” I turn away, hoping to shoo her along. I fidget with my purse straps slung across my chest. But I sense her presence, lingering like some rancid odor that won’t disperse.

  “You looking for something to use for school? Entertainment? Graphic design?” Overeager Girl circles around, trying to reestablish eye contact. I pretend I can’t hear her.

  I duck beneath my new wool hat and bury my chin into the folds of my scarf. I take a circuitous path away from the laptops in the front of the store toward the desktops shoved to the back corner like an unwanted afterthought.

  Despite it being Friday, I’d hoped the store would be crowded, so I could come in, get what I needed, and leave without anyone bothering me. My fallback is to play the icy, rude girl, so that anyone tempted to solicit me leaves me alone—at least long enough to look up a few things and get out before I’m noticed.

  Overeager Girl doesn’t follow me. I hear her attack her next victim with the same horrid line she used on me. Same cheery intonation. “What brings you in today?”

  I scan the store, avoiding eye contact. Sales associates harp on that kind of thing as an invitation to chat. Luckily, every associate is preoccupied, dishing out rehearsed lines and cheesy smiles to customers about devices more current and expensive than the desktops in front of me.

  I loosen my scarf. My hands hover over the keyboard, hesitant at first. One more glance to ensure no one is coming, and I fire up the Internet.

  I don’t know whether Ryan has found anyone to come forward, but he needs as many names of kids forced to participate as he can get. The more people willing to talk, the safer they’ll all be. Even though I’m trying not to speculate what the mayor has planned for the gala next week, I have to do this now. Just in case.

  Knowing time is limited, I focus on the men in the photo that Adam and I found in the library. Harry Hewitt and Daniel London both have kids in high school. Edward Cunnings had a son, who committed suicide. That leaves four other men, all affiliated with the Lakefront Project.

  I type Bill Morrell and hit enter. His face pops up on the screen, taking me back to the anguish, confusion, and resentment I felt after my dad died.

  A man screams. It’s terror-ridden, and a shudder ripples through my body. I clench my gut and try to ground myself. But my nerves are too heightened, making any kind of self-monitoring or mindfulness unreliable. Another scream slices through the night, coming from just outside the store. I watch the store’s patrons. None of them so much as flinch. I inhale slowly, dismissing the sounds and my body’s visceral response to them. With my heart jackhammering in my chest, I push past it, unsure whether the cries in my head were Dopney’s or my dad’s. Either way, they aren’t real.

  I skim through the hits, trying to ignore Steven Finch every time I see the name, and find Morrell’s obituary, featuring a black-and-white picture of him in tweed. Beneath it, a paragraph about how he was this admirable, upstanding citizen, which I still find hard to believe. I scan it, searching for names of the people who survived him. Sure enough, Morrell had two daughters. At the time of his death, one was twenty-two. The other was seventeen. They lived in Kenilworth, attended New Trier High School.

  I google Kellee Morrell, the seventeen-year-old. She would have been the one the Swarm targeted. When I can’t find anything fast enough, I move on to social network sites. Every ten seconds or so, I scan the store, checking to make sure no one is coming. Six minutes pass. Another three. Until finally I find a Kellee Morrell who went to New Trier, now attends Yale, and is apparently on their diving team.

  I scroll through her pictures. She’s won all kinds of awards for diving. Spends a lot of time with her mom and her sister. In every picture, she has this strained, haunted expression. Her lips have a slight curve to them—a sad attempt for a smile. And she wears pearls. A lot. Not exactly Swarm material.

  The longer I stare at her picture, the more convinced I become of her story: the Swarm approached her, she refused to be blackmailed, and they framed and killed Morrell because of it. It’s exactly what they threatened would happen to Ryan’s parents if he didn’t comply. My theory becomes so vibrant and plausible in my head, I grow giddy until I realize there’s no way to prove it. Kellee is at Yale. I can’t even count how many states away that is. Reaching out through social media is not an option. She’s a dead end.

  I roll my wrists and move on: Maximilian Horowitz, Clyde Jennings, and Frank Davies—the last three men from the picture. Sure enough, all three of them have a son or daughter in high school. The teens’ online presence is more limited than Kellee’s, but each of them looks pained in their pictures. Withdrawn. Because like Kellee, they’ve been blackmailed and forced to participate in murdering people?

  I scratch their names down on a Post-it. Adam could produce their home addresses and the schools they attend within the hour. The second I think it, his familiar scent of cedar and grapefruit swirls around me. I think of the way Adam hugged me, the way his lean arms wrapped around me right before . . . I close my eyes and breathe. Deeply. Adam laughs in his self-assured, uninhibited way. The soun
d is so clear, like he’s standing beside me, helping me. Still.

  If anyone understood how badly I needed to take down the mayor and destroy the Swarm, it was Adam. He knew that my drive to hunt them, expose them, and watch them suffer the consequences—for murdering my father, ruining his reputation, robbing me of my sanity and any chance at a normal life—is the only thing that’s kept my mind from collapsing. If I’d continued seeing Dr. What’s-His-Name, he would have recognized it too. Only his take on it would have been much different from mine.

  The ghost of Adam’s laughter swirls around my head. And then I see him, standing behind a pinched-looking woman a couple tables over. He mocks her as she complains to a sales associate that Siri’s voice is too robotic. She wants something that sounds more natural, more human. I can’t help but snicker at the way he mimics her expression, her gestures so well. We laugh together. One last time. I hope I never forget that sound. As much as it pains me, I bury it, sending Adam and my memories of him down the dark, twisty tunnel.

  If I survive this week, I’ll start seeing Dr. What’s-His-Name again. I’ll go to his psychiatric care center if he thinks it will help. I will allow myself to give in, to break down, to accept help, and to heal the way I’m meant to. I promise—in exchange for strength, whatever I have left, to stay focused and clear-headed, at least until after the gala.

  I check my watch. Fourteen minutes have passed. I study the sales associates, the customers in the store. No one looks interested in me. Like an addict, I type in one more name: Ryan Hewitt. For as much time as I’ve spent with him, I know very little.

  Ryan Hewitt pops up on every site I search. None of them are the Ryan Hewitt I know. I add Chicago and even his dad’s name to the search, but it doesn’t help. The only other detail I know about him is the kind of car he drives, which won’t do anything.

  “What exactly do you want to know?”

  I spin around to find Emi Vega smirking at me. She wears a black belted coat with the collar popped and red stilettos. Her caramel hair is tucked into a red knit hat. An oversized Prada bag hangs on her shoulder.

  I close out my windows, wondering what she saw.

  “Last time I fell for that, you disappeared.”

  Emi crosses her ankles, sticks her hands into her pockets. “These things take time.”

  Her ankle jeans look perfectly tailored, and it annoys me.

  “You got what you needed from me and bolted. What is it you need now?”

  “I have your answers.” Emi lifts an eyebrow. She stares at me with a smug look on her face. “If you still want them.”

  My pulse quickens. I stand as still as possible, hoping she doesn’t notice how desperate I am to know what she’s uncovered. After weeks of nothing from Emi, I’d dismissed her as another person using me.

  “It wasn’t easy. Someone’s put quite a bit of money into hiding this one.” Emi shifts her purse straps as if we’re talking about something futile. She then pulls her phone from her pocket and flips through it. “Jeremiah Dopney’s parents, Alicia and Alex Dopney, are this quaint, wholesome couple from Brunswick, Ohio. Jeremiah is their only child. However . . .” Her eyes and thick lashes flash up at me, drawing out the reveal. “He was adopted—something that was not easy to find—and born here in Chicago, at Prentice. Again, not easy to uncover.”

  She pauses like I should hail her as some sort of god for figuring this all out—like she doesn’t have a team of research assistants helping her. My hand slips from the desktop keyboard.

  “His father’s name isn’t on his birth certificate. His mom is listed as Sydney Baker.” She steps toward me, leans against the blond wood table.

  “Am I supposed to know who that is?” I try to sound indifferent, but my head grows light anticipating the connection that made Dopney a target and got him killed.

  “Less than a year after Sydney Baker gave her baby up for adoption, she married Frank Cornell.”

  “Get to the point.” My mind reels. Sydney Cornell sounds familiar—she’s someone I should recognize.

  Emi’s eyes go flat. She breathes through her nose as if I’m the one annoying her. “Let’s not forget I did this for you.”

  Emi Vega doesn’t do anything without something in it for her. But I’m too eager to hear the rest to get into it.

  She straightens her posture. Crosses her arms. “Sydney Cornell is an infamous Lake Forest socialite who just happens to be the chairperson for the Save the Parks Gala.” She raises both of her eyebrows and presses her dark-red lips together.

  “The gala raising money to shut down the next phase of the Lakefront Project.”

  Emi smirks. Her eyes ignite. “Exactly.”

  I’m caught in a moment of sheer disbelief. She did it. What she found links the attacks to the Lakefront Project. It’s the connection my dad needed. Authorities can use this to incriminate Mayor Henking and anyone else involved. “They need to reopen my dad’s case,” I whisper.

  The excitement drops from her face. Emi shakes her head. “Easy, there. You won’t find a prosecutor who’ll touch this. Not unless you have something else to offer.”

  Like a handful of teenagers willing to come forward to share intimate details of how the Swarm operates. A rush of adrenaline quivers through me. I’m about to tell her when I realize what she wants to do, what she might have already done. “You want to write a story about this.”

  “It’s the only way to get people to open their eyes.”

  This was always about getting the story for her, boosting her fame. And if she does that, she ruins everything.

  I turn to the Apple desktop, clear the search history. I exit out of each window, find the database file in the hard drive, and delete that too. I need to get out of this store. Away from her.

  Emi reaches into her bag and grabs something from it. Before I realize what she’s doing, she sticks a flash drive into the desktop.

  Is she trying to retrieve everything I just searched for? So she can use that too? “What are you doing?”

  Emi takes the mouse and begins clicking. “There’s a high school kid over there who hasn’t stopped staring at you since you entered the store.”

  I search for who she’s talking about, half expecting to see Lip Spikes glaring at me, but I don’t see anyone.

  “Either he’s checking you out in a very creepy way, or he’s been sent to follow you. If it’s the latter, I’m guessing he’s going to be all about this computer once you leave. And simply clearing the search history and trashing a file isn’t going to cut it.” Emi is deep into the Internet database when she pulls a folder from her flash drive and dumps it into the browser archives. She closes each window, pulls her device out, and drops it into her purse.

  Emi crosses her arms and leans her hip against the table. “It’s a sub program.” She nods toward the desktop. “Scrambles the history. You’re covered.” She says it with confidence. It’s clear she’s done this before. “The article’s already written,” Emi continues. “I don’t mention you. But I bring up your dad’s death and pose the question that his attack might not have been the only targeted one.”

  I grab the straps of my bag and step away from the desktop. This could give the mayor time to circumvent any real accusations. And from the sound of it, it does nothing to clear my dad’s name. I push my shoulders back. She wouldn’t have this article if it weren’t for me.

  Emi’s expression softens. “It’s the only way, Lia,” she says. The diamond studs in her ears the size of my thumbnail flash as she tilts her head.

  She’s going to make a fortune off this article.

  “What if people blame Sydney Cornell and boycott the gala?”

  “I’m releasing it after the gala.”

  “Will it vindicate Rafael Nuñez?”

  “CPD dropped that lead weeks ago.”

  I open my mouth for another retort, but I have nothing to say. Nothing to argue. I can’t exactly tell her I have people—one person, actually—willing to talk. />
  “I’m hoping to get a few shots of Sydney Cornell with people from the Lakefront Project at the gala. All of them are so narcissistic, at least some of them are bound to be there, even if it blatantly contradicts their objectives.”

  Something inside me crumbles. “I’m going,” I whisper.

  Emi’s eyes become squinty. “I get that you want to do something, but this really isn’t the place for you to—”

  “With Cullen Henking,” I cut in. “The mayor wants me near him. He’s making me go.”

  Recognition clicks on Emi’s face. She rests her fingers on her lip. “For a photo op. Of course he would.”

  I don’t know if I should say it or not. It comes out before I decide. “The mayor heads the Death Mob.”

  “We still can’t prove it. And until then, you should—”

  “The next attack is the night of the gala.”

  For once, Emi is silent. She stares at me for several prolonged seconds. “Where is it?”

  “Didn’t say.”

  More silence hangs between us as Emi seems to consider what it may mean.

  “Remind me not to underestimate you.” She glances at the computer. “Though you suck at covering your tracks.”

  She pulls out a cell from her Prada bag. “This is for you.” She hands over a phone. The plastic covering is still on the screen. “If you think of anything, or”—she stares at the phone—“if you need help, my number is programmed in there. The password is zero, nine, two, eight, one, five.” She smiles wryly, indicating there’s something to the numbers I’m missing.

  “Am I supposed to recognize that?”

  “The last two are Hewitt boy’s address.” She looks at her nails. “I pinned it on Maps, if you’re interested.”

  I stare at the phone, wondering what else she put in there.

  Her eyebrows pinch. She holds eye contact. “Whoever’s running the Death Mob . . .” Emi drops her voice to a whisper. “Especially if it’s the mayor—just be careful.”