Every Stolen Breath

by Kimberly Gabriel

  I slump in the folding chair once again. “Where will you be?”

  “Here. We’re broadcasting from another suite.”

  “Good,” I say, wrapping my coat around me. “If I don’t like what I see, I’m busting in.”

  Emi laughs. “I don’t doubt it.”

  CHAPTER 31

  I inhale the Albuterol and Pulmicort mist and imagine it traveling down my throat into my damaged lungs—but not to heal them. My lungs are beyond repair. The meds are meant to sustain life, until my body decides the payoff isn’t worth the effort.

  I was told Annie had the stronger lungs when we were born. I’ll never know why hers shut down while mine kept pumping in my weak, two-pound body.

  “Looks like she’s on NBC,” my mom says, flipping through the stations. At one point, NBC cancelled an interview with my dad. Now Dateline gets to air Emi’s interview like they care about condemning criminals, exposing corruption.

  Apparently if it yields high-enough ratings.

  My mom and I sit on the king-sized bed, propped by pillows that would be comfortable if I weren’t so broken. Maybe I should be nervous about what Emi’s going to say in her interview. But as I watch the Botoxed broadcaster talk about a pet food recall, like what he’s saying is the most important thing anyone’s ever heard, I feel numb. My head rolls toward the coffee table littered with complimentary snacks: popcorn, cookies, assorted mixes, bottled water.

  “Do you want something?” my mom asks. She doesn’t tell me I should eat or try to assess the damage. Beneath the eyeliner and mascara, her eyes are rimmed with red, making them look greener.

  I shake my head. Mist from the nebulizer seeps from my mask and billows around my face. I should be hungry, but I can’t bring myself to eat. My stomach, like everything else, is hollow. My arms hang like dead weights to my sides, and my hair, still damp from the shower, falls down my back like a thick, blonde, lifeless ribbon.

  Emi takes a seat across from a woman interviewing her in a room similar to ours.

  My mom turns up the volume.

  Behind Emi, the same painting of blue and beige chrysanthemums hangs on the wall. A banner at the bottom of the screen proclaims “Death Mob in Chicago: Exclusive Breaking News.”

  Instead of giving a rhapsodic exposition on the Death Mob era, a woman with pale skin and dark features jumps right into tonight’s attack. She warns viewers the footage they’re about to show includes a fatality, the victim’s final moments.

  Ryan.

  I brace myself, and my mom puts her hand on top of mine.

  Rioting protestors fill the screen. Whoever filmed it had an elevated vantage point. I imagine someone standing on top of a van parked on Michigan Avenue. The camera is too far away to see faces, but it’s easy to spot the Initiators. They part through the protestors with ease. One of them winds up to punch Ryan, who’s already charging them.

  I don’t realize I’m crying until everything blurs. Ryan hits first, but then he’s devoured. Within seconds, he completely disappears. A flash of light explodes from inside the Swarm as the gunshot fires. The camera begins shaking as people run away. The footage cuts.

  Hot tears stream down my face and pool at the base of my neck. I’m shattered, too stunned to move. My mom doesn’t move either. Other than the hand resting on mine, she makes no attempt to make me feel better. She knows as well as I do, I will never feel better. Even once Emi outs Richard, and Richard is locked away forever, I will celebrate the victory but I will not feel better. I will feel hollow and damaged, scarred by everything I’ve seen in the last few months, just like Dr. What’s-His-Name always predicted.

  Emi sits in a Peninsula armchair. She looks at ease as she talks about my father, how he’d always been out to prove that the Death Mob was organized, though not by gangs, and that the victims were targeted. I should be on edge, waiting for her to announce to the world my father was right, but my body is heavy, like I could sink into the feather pillows and drown in the down comforter.

  “After his murder, his daughter continued his mission. Lia Finch discovered that the Death Mob communicated through Twitter.”

  Emi wears a navy suit with a navy crew-cut blouse beneath it. Once again, her makeup has been toned down for national news. Emi tells the Dateline anchor how I began to unravel its inner workings. As she speaks, she portrays me as a hero, giving me more credit than I deserve.

  I couldn’t have figured it all out without Adam. And Ryan.

  My insides twist. Ryan was willing to come forward. To risk his life. I think of the severe look on his face when he saw his picture, demanded Cullen and I escape, then turned to face his attackers. Anyone else would have run.

  I would have run. Or collapsed.

  The Dateline anchor cuts in. “Lia Finch confronted Richard Stewart, Mayor Henking’s chief advisor, tonight at the mayor’s home after suspecting his role in organizing the Death Mob.”

  Emi nods.

  Their conversation seems planned even though they only had twenty minutes to set up for this interview.

  “Lia feared for her life. I helped her install software that turned her phone into a listening device. We did this for her protection. After recording tonight’s fatal attack and sharing it with the world, she cleverly used it to record Stewart’s confession.”

  It’s not true. My plan failed. Hers didn’t. But I’m too empty to care.

  The screen turns blue and begins transcribing the conversation I had with Richard just over an hour ago as it plays in the background. It feels like a lifetime ago.

  I barely recognize my voice. “You run the attacks.”

  “I do a lot more than that.”

  “You murder people.”

  “I keep people in line . . .” Richard sounds condescending. Like he knows he’s about to kill me.

  “It’s all about control for you . . .” My voice is assertive, strong. But I don’t remember saying any of it.

  “It’s not about what I want—it’s about what this city needs . . . You make it all sound so simple, but I assure you, it’s a lot more complicated than that.”

  All I remember is how certain I was that I would die.

  Emi begins breaking it all down, but I miss it. The nebulizer’s high-pitched whistle, indicating I’ve emptied all the medicine from the tiny cylinder base, is all I hear. It’s been making this noise for a while. I take the mask off and flip the switch on the neb. As I do, I glance at my mom. Her face is stoic. She’s always been better at holding it in than I am.

  By the time I turn back to the screen, they’re showing FBI agents leading Richard out of the mayor’s house in handcuffs. Behind them, Detective Irving pushes reporters away as agents put Richard in the back of a dark SUV.

  “He called me,” my mom says, like I should know what she’s talking about. “Ted Irving.”

  Detective Irving wears a long tweed coat. His thick, dark mustache covers his lips, which appear to be smirking.

  “He filed warrants earlier tonight for the arrest of five teenagers—Initiators, he called them. He thinks they were involved in your dad’s attack too.”

  I fall back against the pillow and take in the gravity of what she’s saying. This is what I’ve been wanting for so long.

  “Ted told me he used your live stream from the attack to identify them.”

  I wonder if she saw the video, what she thought about it. I lace my fingers through hers and squeeze. Hard. My voice cracks, sounding thick and phlegmy. “Would Dad be happy?”

  My mom pulls a tissue from the box near the bed. “Your father would be devastated knowing you’ve gone through any of this.”

  She stares at me. Her makeup is smeared like she cried when I wasn’t looking. She doesn’t dab her face. Instead, she offers me the tissue. I take it and crumble it in my other hand. Then I lean against her shoulder while I watch the TV, trying to take comfort in knowing Richard is somewhere in handcuffs, and Lip Spikes might be soon.

  “Do you think it’s over?
” I ask.

  She pauses before answering with conviction. “Yes.”

  “The mayor might get away.”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  I close my eyes.

  The second I do, screaming accosts me. I’m flung over Cullen’s shoulder, crashing into hundreds of people packed together, fighting to escape. Somewhere Ryan is fighting for his life, but I’m suffocating in a sea of bodies.

  Claustrophobia claws at my throat. I wrench my eyes open and gasp. Like I’m drowning, dying.

  My mom cradles my head. She rakes her fingers through my hair and stays calm. She doesn’t freak out. Or ask me what’s wrong. She holds me. Waiting for me to realize it’s not real.

  “I might not be able to fight it this time.” The visions. Hallucinations. They will break me after tonight. I’ll spend my days at Compass, surrounded by people faulty and wrecked like me. But even with their help, I don’t know how I could ever recover.

  “It’ll be difficult, but no one fights as hard as you.” My mom chokes. She pauses, strokes my hair. “When you and your sister were born, doctors warned us. Neither of you were expected to live. You especially. Both of your lungs were collapsed. Your sister made it a week in the NICU. She fought hard, but she was so tiny.” Her voice breaks. She swallows. “You were even smaller. Barely bigger than my hand. But you were so strong. You had this fight inside you, this will to live. For three months, I watched you exceed the hospital’s expectations. You hated the tube that helped you breathe. So you showed us you could breathe without it. You kicked out the IV in your foot when you didn’t need it anymore.” She laughs. “You ripped out your feeding tube and started eating on your own before any of us thought you were ready.”

  I sit back to look at her. My mom’s face is red, puffy, and drenched. Somehow she’s more beautiful when she cries.

  “Your father and I were so amazed by you. We always have been. You have more strength, more will, and more fight than anyone I’ve ever known.”

  “What if that’s not who I am anymore?”

  She smiles. Her eyes bend. “Strength isn’t defined by who can hit the hardest in a fight, but by who’s still standing at the end.”

  Something resembling warmth fills the cracks inside me. I should hug her, tell her I love her, tell her how much I need her to help me survive all of this. And I will when my words and my body start working again. But for now, I lean on her shoulder as she strokes my wet hair.

  Outside the windows in our room, the city buzzes with life like nothing has changed. The city pulsates even though Ryan is dead and Richard is no longer in control.

  I take a deep breath. Close my eyes.

  That’s when someone knocks on the door of our hotel room.

  CHAPTER 32

  Both of us freeze.

  My mom swings her legs down from the bed and stands before I can even blink. She tiptoes past the sliding wood doors and into the living room. Her eyes are focused, her expression tight. She looks courageous in a way I could never pull off. Then she slips around the corner and I can’t see her anymore.

  My stomach sinks.

  I imagine her leaning against the door and pressing her eye against the peephole. I wait for her to come running around the corner toward me, so that we can find an escape or a place to hide from the hit man at the door. I should find my phone to call the police or live stream my murder. At least then whoever’s here to kill me wouldn’t get away with it.

  I strain my ears. Nothing.

  It can’t be Emi. She’s still on TV. It could be the concierge or room service bringing more food we won’t eat. Maybe it’s Chicago police to berate me with questions. But as the seconds drag on, I’m convinced it’s a hit man and that this was always the way it was going to end.

  The doorknob rattles as it turns. The door opens, scraping across the carpet. The trembling begins in my hands. It snakes through my nerves until my whole body is shaking. I hold my breath, wait for my mom to talk. Whoever knocked will say something. Just as I’m about to scream, to lose control of the shaking and slip into a full-out panic attack, my mom steps into view. Her face is white with shock.

  The hit man must have stabbed her. I’m about to see her body fall.

  But then the door clicks shut, and Ryan steps around the corner.

  He stands in front of my mom in a white T-shirt soaked in blood.

  I want to trust my eyes, and I’m not sure if I should.

  He walks hesitantly. He has a cut on his cheekbone in the middle of a swollen, purplish bruise. His shoulders hunch, like he’s sore, but he’s moving and breathing and alive.

  I throw my legs off the side of the bed. I don’t feel the carpet beneath my feet. My body shakes and wobbles so badly I can barely walk. I cross the hotel living room, wondering if I’ve somehow lost my mind, and I’m only imagining him standing in front of me covered in blood.

  He lifts his arms, like he’s opening them for me.

  My cheeks burn as I pick up speed. Instead of collapsing into him, I shove him in the chest. “What are you doing here?”

  He winces. “Lia—”

  Every muscle is taught, threatening to snap. “I watched you die.” I motion to shove him again, but he catches my wrists.

  “I know,” he whispers. “I’m sorry.”

  I clench my teeth, trying to contain the shake in my voice. “You let me think—” You were dead. But I can’t say it. Because I can’t believe it. Dopney. My dad. Adam. Ryan. I watched them all die. I know I did.

  Ryan pulls me in and wraps his arms around me. “I’m sorry.” His voice is low and coarse, and it reminds me of the first time I met him, when he threw me off the pier. He presses his lips against the side of my head just like I’d imagined in the mayor’s house. It’s too much. I try to push him away, determined to resist him and everything happening, but my efforts are futile. And I break.

  My hands claw the back of his shirt. I sob into his shoulder. Every tendon in his back is tight. I reach around his shoulders, pulling my face into his neck, squeezing the space between us so it’s nonexistent. I can’t get close enough.

  He must feel it too, because his arms tighten around me. One hand slides up my neck, weaves into my wet hair.

  My body is weak, emotionally exhausted. I cry into his neck for longer than I should until my legs grow tired of standing.

  Ryan pulls me back. “Are you hurt?” He looks me up and down, takes in the T-shirt and pajamas that were sent to our room.

  I shake my head, step back. It’s hard to wrap my head around it. Part of me is reluctant to believe he’s alive and touching me. Like my mind has officially snapped and this is all a cruel, sadistic hallucination. “I saw you . . .” I picture the Swarm engulfing him. “I watched you die.” It’s all I can think and say.

  I cross my arms against my chest, trying to understand, trying to remember how it happened.

  Ryan’s gray eyes look glossy. Shadows float beneath them, in the hollows of his cheeks. He tilts his head. “I thought it was going to be you.” His jaw ripples. “All week, I thought you were the next victim. So I reached out to the names you gave me, everyone I could think of who might be forced into it, until I found enough of us to fix the whole thing.”

  Behind Ryan, my mom takes a seat on the sofa. She sees me notice her and looks away at the flat-screen still playing Emi’s live interview.

  “We planned it so once your picture was sent, we’d get to you before the Initiators. I had enough people to surround you and keep you concealed. To make it look like you were being attacked.”

  I reach out. My fingers graze his shirt where the blood has dried. “You’re bleeding.”

  He flattens my hand against his chest. “It’s fake.”

  “The gunshot?”

  “Blanks.” Ryan smiles just a little. “We needed a way to make everyone think you were dead and scatter.” The crease between his brow deepens, making him look more vulnerable than I’ve ever seen him before.

 
I slip my hand away.

  “I had a paramedic ready to take you to Northwestern and a doctor who would proclaim you were in critical condition until we figured out what to do next.”

  “But it wasn’t me.”

  “When I saw my picture . . .” Ryan shrugs his left shoulder. “I tried to get as far away from you as I could. After the Initiators’ first few hits, the plan took over. Everyone did for me what I’d asked them to do for you.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  He steps closer again, tucks my hair behind my ear.

  “I should’ve.”

  I stare at the straight line of his lips and think of the night in my garage when he kissed me. I’m about to lean into him when something catches his eye, and Ryan turns toward the TV.

  Emi nods her head. She looks confident as she says, “I’d imagine their next step would be looking into whether or not he acted alone . . .”

  “Do your parents know you’re okay?” my mom asks.

  Ryan turns and nods. “I called my parents after I left the hospital. They don’t know anything about what happened. I’m a minor. Authorities can’t legally release my name or details.”

  “And the hospital just let you go?” I ask, drawing his attention back.

  Half of Ryan’s mouth lifts into a smile. “I snuck out. The Initiators got in a couple good hits, but they didn’t break anything.”

  Ten minutes ago, I watched Ryan murdered on TV. Every inch of me ached with grief, and now he’s standing in my hotel room with his square jaw, his dark brows, his perfect eyes. He’s barely even injured.

  “How did you find us?” my mom asks. There’s concern behind her question.

  “A friend of mine works with Emi Vega.”

  “Her cameraman,” I say.

  “Yeah.” Ryan’s lips flicker, like I’ve impressed him. He addresses my mom. “You don’t need to worry about him telling anyone else. There are quite a few people willing to protect Lia right now. He’s one of them.”