Every Stolen Breath

by Kimberly Gabriel

  I toss the covers over my head, concealing the phone’s light, as if whoever’s in the car below can figure out what I’m doing.

  I access Twitter, find the tweet about the attack.

  My eye begins to twitch. Rubbing the space between my brows, I push past my indecision.

  I sign in using my fake username and press reply. Hoping I know what I’m doing, I type, “I’m in,” and hit send before I can change my mind about delivering a direct message to whoever sent the tweet announcing the attack.

  CHAPTER 28

  I keep my hair in a low ponytail. It brushes against my back every time I turn my head, sending shivers down my spine. I blame the black cocktail dress the mayor’s office sent for me to wear, with its open back and tight bodice. The skirt has four slits, leaving panels that barely cover my legs when I walk. Not exactly modest, but also too sophisticated for a sixteen-year-old, which I’m guessing is the point. Whatever role I’ll be playing tonight, they want me to look older than I am.

  I tap the burner phone to wake it, like I’ve somehow missed the notification giving the location of the attack. Aside from the time, 6:53, the screen is blank, which doesn’t feel right. Maybe I messed up the sign-in, because the coordinates should have come by now. With the attack at seven thirty, the organizer would have to give everyone in the Swarm a chance to get there. Not that I can’t figure out where it is on my own. Seven thirty is about the time I’ll be arriving at Museum Campus.

  I grab the picture on my dresser of me and my parents on the black-rock beach—the only one not hanging on my walls. We huddle in our raincoats as it drizzles. The sun rises behind us, turning the sky purple. It’s from the trip we took to Maui, just the three of us. The happiest moment I remember. I tuck it into the thin designer clutch that was delivered with the dress so I can keep the memory close. For when I need it.

  I’m clasping a rhinestone into my ear when my mom walks past my room wearing something silver and swirling, instead of the loungewear I expect from her at this time of night. Collecting my purse and my two phones, I head downstairs after her, where she’s rolling the kitchen cabinets open and shut.

  I find her rummaging around the cabinet where we keep the medicines, dressed in a satin gown with a light, billowy skirt floating gracefully around her legs. Her hair is swept up on top of her head. Her makeup is flawless, making me wish I’d spent just a bit more time touching up my own eye makeup—even if Cullen is my date. My mom looks beautiful in a way I could never replicate.

  “What are you doing?”

  My mom pulls out a bottle of aspirin and drops it into her purse. When she looks up, I’m amazed by how green her eyes appear.

  “I’m going to the gala,” she says.

  I figured my mom supported the Save the Parks initiative, but she’s not one for public appearances when they aren’t required.

  “Why?”

  Her eyes glisten. There’s sadness behind them, or maybe it’s the makeup deceiving me. “To watch over you.”

  I fidget with the clasp on my clutch. “What exactly do you think I’m going to do?”

  My mom takes a step toward me. “I think you’re going to be strong and brave like you always are. But I don’t trust the mayor or his son.”

  “You can’t—”

  “You’re my daughter,” she says in a raised voice, talking over me. “And when you decide you’re done with whatever it is they’re making you do tonight, I’ll be there to bring you home.” My mom holds out her hand, which has something grasped inside of it.

  When I extend my own hand in response, she drops the inhaler into my palm. She reaches for my face and cups my chin while brushing her thumb against my cheek.

  “You look like him.”

  I bury a sob that’s threatening to erupt. Please don’t cry. If she cries, I’ll lose the composure I’m fighting to maintain.

  “You’re stunning,” she whispers. “Smart, stubborn, strong, and stunning. Like him.” Her hand falls. Her eyes bend. “You don’t have to do this.”

  “Yes, I do,” I whisper back, trying not to choke on the lump thickening in my throat.

  She touches my shoulder and kisses my forehead. “Then I’ll see you in an hour,” she says before disappearing up the stairs.

  The doorbell rings, but I can’t move. I consider running upstairs to say goodbye. One last word. A wave. A hug. As I grab my long coat and head for the door, a nagging feeling pulls my heart—not saying goodbye to her is a mistake.

  But if I do, she’ll catch on. She won’t let me leave.

  “Good evening, Miss Finch.” The driver waits at the bottom of our stairs when I answer the door. He nods his head before turning toward the black town car idling in the street.

  I squeeze my gut, take a deep breath, and follow him down our walkway. The chilled air glides around my neck, tossing my ponytail sideways. The town car is too small for the mayor’s entire entourage. I pull the coat tight across my shoulders and pray it’s empty.

  When the driver opens the door, Cullen, dressed in a tuxedo, stares out the opposite window. He doesn’t look my way as I step in.

  We continue ignoring each other as the driver climbs in and pulls away toward the Shedd Aquarium. For several minutes, no one speaks, which is fine by me. The less expected of me, the better. Then, out of nowhere, Cullen claps his hands and rubs them together. “You’re really going to hate this,” he says, flashing a dimpled smile.

  If I didn’t detest him so much, I’d find him attractive in a way totally different from Ryan. Cullen’s light brown hair is brushed to one side. He’s clean-cut and polished, like he was made to wear tuxedos. “This is right at the top of things you despise most.”

  “How would you know?”

  Cullen snorts. “Oh, come on.” He drums his hands on his legs like he has pent-up energy he doesn’t know what to do with. “You’re not that complicated.”

  I tug at my coat, to cover my legs, and turn to look out the window. Cullen Henking is the son of the man who killed my father. He’s part of whatever the mayor has planned for me tonight, making him just as dangerous and untrustworthy.

  “The easiest way to get through it is to pretend you’re someone else—like you’re playing a role.” His voice trails. “After that, it’s easy to figure out how you’re supposed to act, what you should say.”

  Sounds like a coping mechanism for aiding and abetting murder. “Is that what you do?”

  Cullen’s brown eyes glint. “We’re talking about you—not me.” He winks. “You look very pretty tonight.”

  I hold his stare, letting him know his flattery will not intimidate me. “Is that what you feel you should say?”

  Cullen chuckles. “Oh, come on, Lia. Insecurity doesn’t suit you. You know you’re pretty.”

  My face flushes, and the heat travels down my neck. I change the subject. “What should I expect tonight?”

  I watch for Cullen to flinch or wince or hesitate. But the only movement comes from his legs bouncing up and down in a skittish way I don’t expect of him. I can’t tell if it’s related to what will come of me.

  “A lot of rich, drunk, insincere people pretending to care about something they don’t. Yourself included. They’re going to be all about you and your Lifetime story.” Cullen pulls out his phone and flips through it. “Good thing you don’t buy into that crap.”

  I lay both hands on the purse in my lap, gently feeling the outline of the two phones and my inhaler crammed inside.

  We turn down State Street, which seems more crowded than usual, even for a Saturday night. Two couples hail a cab at Oak Street. The men wear tuxes. The women wear long earrings and evening gowns. Black and purple skirts twist in the wind beneath their coats.

  Across the city, I imagine the mayor and his entourage arriving in their limo. They snake their way around the white stone octagon, admiring the panoramic view of the city. The mayor, his wife—flown in for the occasion—and their party climb the formal staircase, beneath a
white awning descending like a tongue from the aquarium’s front entrance. Photographers and news crews crowd around the Greek columns, I’m sure, snapping shots of local celebrities like it matters.

  My phone chimes. For a moment I think it’s the burner phone, the Death Mob sending the tweet. But that phone’s on vibrate.

  Cullen glances my way as I stare at my lap.

  I open the clutch and peek inside. Detective Irving’s name lights up my screen.

  My back tenses. After debating for several days, I called him last night. Left him a message. Gave him details of what I know about the attack with the hope that whatever’s about to happen, he’s ready to make arrests when it’s over.

  I imagine answering it, explaining in some coded way what I’m being forced to do. Would he care? Would he try to help? By calling him, I might have alerted the mayor that I’m onto him, giving him the greater advantage. My mom trusts Irving. I hope I can too. Either way, I can’t talk to him with Cullen in the car. I silence the ringer, resigned to stick to my plan.

  As we head south toward Museum Campus, the traffic thickens until we are inching along one block at a time.

  Cullen rolls down his window. A muffled roar of shouting pours into the town car. “What’s going on?” he asks the driver.

  “Protestors rioting on Michigan.” The driver looks at us through his rearview mirror.

  I strain my ears. Chanting—I can just make it out. I’m not sure what they’re saying. Looking toward the downtown chaos, I notice white flakes swirling in the air. It must have just started. The season’s first sign of snow.

  “It’s all over the news,” the driver says.

  A mini flat-screen on the back of the passenger’s seat clicks on in front of me. A WGN reporter—someone other than Emi—stands in front of a packed Michigan Avenue.

  “. . . calling it a peaceful protest. Of the hundreds of protestors here, some of them are blocking storefronts, preventing customers from entering or leaving. Most of the protestors, however, seem to be gathering around the Water Tower. As you can see behind me, there are so many of them, it’s difficult to move. The police currently are not intervening. While authorities have declined to give us their official stance on what’s happening, they seem to be standing by in case protestors get out of control. Officers are forming a perimeter around the Magnificent Mile . . .”

  I lean forward, trying to make out what I can on the tiny flat-screen in front of me. Behind the reporter, protestors hold up “Save the Parks” signs. One sign reads, “Kill Phase Two, Not Our Parks.”

  “According to Mayor Henking’s office, Phase One of the Lakefront Project produced nearly five thousand jobs and had an economic impact of over a billion dollars. Phase Two is projected to bring in twice that much, but the protestors here believe that profit isn’t worth giving up more protected lakefront property.” The camera switches to a black woman in a thick tan coat and knit hat. She defames the project in a deep, throaty voice.

  Cullen rolls up the window, drawing my attention away from the screen. He looks annoyed. “Turn around. Take Lake Shore.”

  The street is gridlocked in both directions.

  “They’ve shut down Michigan and are redirecting traffic,” the driver says dryly. “All the roads are like this right now.”

  Cullen scowls. He grabs a bottled water from the center console. “Idiots.”

  “Why? Because they aren’t supporting your dad?”

  “You’d think people in this city would avoid crowds. You of all people should know that.”

  A cold sweat breaks out along my hairline. Footage on the flat-screen switches to a bird’s-eye view from the WGN helicopter. Hundreds of people cram around the Water Tower. The police perimeter is too far from the protestors. If there were to be an attack there, anywhere near the center, it would be impossible to rescue the victim in time. The Swarm’s attacks have never been this public. The outcome could be catastrophic. And the victim would be someone else. Not me.

  My purse buzzes with a notification. The burner phone from Emi. Every muscle in my body is fraught with tension as I reach in and pull it out.

  A tweet from an unknown account.

  41.897255–87.62448971

  The coordinates. My hands shake as I google them. Zoom in on the location. Michigan Avenue. The Water Tower.

  It’s not what I expected, and I have trouble wrapping my brain around it. I should be relieved. The mayor isn’t going after me after all. But instead, I’m panicked. Someone’s about to die. Again. Like Dopney.

  My entire body trembling, I text Emi: Next attack—Water Tower—protestors

  I send the same message to Irving.

  The car’s dashboard reads 7:10. The attack is in twenty minutes. How will anyone get there in time, including the Swarm?

  “When we get to the Shedd,” Cullen says, “Richard will have a stock response for us to parrot all night. The guy’s a control freak, but he’s good with stuff like this.”

  Cullen swigs his water as the world begins spinning in slow motion. The car is stuck in a complete standstill. In the rearview mirror, the driver’s face glows red from the brake lights in front of him. My heart beats so forcefully, it’s the only sound I hear. I need to get there, record it, catch Lip Spikes’ steely face and plaster it all over the Internet so everyone knows exactly who he is and what he’s done. But as I open the door of the town car and jump out, the driving force is the overwhelming urge to warn them—to save them all.

  Both lanes on State Street are gridlocked. Clutching my purse, I run around the back of the car. Squeeze between it and the taxi close behind. I cross the northbound lane and start running. The wind bites at my face. Flurries thicken. They smack my eyes. In the distance, protestors shout. I listen for screams of alarm, but the booming noise sounds angry, not fearful.

  As I round the corner to Pearson, my foot gets stuck, yanking me back. I fall against the sidewalk, scraping my knee, my palms. Before I can look, someone jerks my heel out from between the metal slats of a city grate.

  Cullen looks down at me with near abhorrence. “What are you doing?” He flips the collar of his tuxedo up around his neck, rubs his hands together. Small puffs of steam circle his nose.

  I scramble to my feet. “Those people . . .” I try to breathe, but the pressure squeezing my chest is torturous. “They’re in danger.” I start jogging in heels toward the Water Tower, dodging people on the sidewalk as I go.

  Cullen catches up to me. He grabs my wrist and begins dragging me the other way, back toward the car. “Don’t be stupid.”

  I pull against him, but Cullen tightens his grip until he’s pinching my skin. I try to shake him off. “We have to warn them.”

  “About what?” He stops and shouts at me. “What aren’t you telling me?”

  I have no idea what Cullen knows or how involved he is in his dad’s Death Mob ring. It’s only a matter of time before the Initiators throw the first punch, and they swarm their victim.

  “The next attack,” I say. My breath scrapes against the back of my throat—the first sign my lungs are giving out on me. “The Swarm is going to attack the protestors.”

  Cullen stares at me as if considering whether I’ve lost my mind.

  “I have to at least warn them,” I plead.

  He lets go of my wrist, and I take off toward the Water Tower.

  Behind me, Cullen’s shoes click against the pavement as he follows me into the riot.

  When we get to the edge of the plaza, the noise is deafening. Hundreds of protestors crowd around the limestone tower. Some of them hoist picket signs in the air while others mosh and chant with no aim or purpose.

  Police officers form a broken perimeter on the streets. Some of them wait on horseback, watching the commotion unfold.

  I point to them. “Tell the police.”

  Cullen rubs his hands together for heat. “No!” He leans in, screaming in my ear above the noise. “We’re getting out of here as soon as you realize
how idiotic this is.”

  The officers are relaxed, like they’re hanging out on the street corner, eating hot dogs before a Cubs game. Some of them are laughing, joking. Didn’t Irving get my text? Or maybe he doesn’t care. Either way, they’re useless.

  I turn to the crowd. Everyone wears hats, scarves, and winter coats. But I see Swarm. Already. They are hard to spot. But they’re in there. A short guy stands a few people in. His body is stiff. His hands are jammed into his pockets. He’s wearing sunglasses. Another bulky kid stands on the stairs of the Water Tower wearing a stocking hat, wool scarf. A protest sign dangles from his fingertips as if it’s a prop. The closer I look at the crowd, the more I see them. Teenagers, concealed identities, standing amid the crowd. They’re waiting—not participating in the protest. How did they all beat me here? And then I see a thin girl dressed in black: North Face coat, stocking cap, sunglasses, and a bright, coppery ponytail running down her spine. Copperhead. She disappears into the crowd, slinking behind a woman wearing a puffy down coat and carrying a baby strapped to her torso. The woman raises a sign high above her head as her baby clutches the carrier.

  I run into the heavy mass, shoving people out of my way. Half the crowd chants, “Save the Parks.” Others slander the Lakefront Project, and the mayor for backing it.

  The protest is utter chaos—the perfect storm for a massive attack.

  I plunge forward, cursing my heels for slowing me down. The clenching in my stomach scrabbles its way up to my chest, my lungs, my throat until I feel like I’m being strangled.

  Forgetting Copperhead and whoever else might be in there, I tunnel in on the woman with the baby. I shove my way into the inner circle. Grab her elbow. She turns and glares like I’m arresting her.

  “The Swarm’s about to attack!” I scream like my lungs are strong and not in the process of shutting down.

  But the woman just stares. The baby sucks his pacifier, his eyes wide at the surrounding pandemonium.

  I tug her, pulling her away from the center. “Death Mob.”