“It’s rerouted pretty well.” Adam smirks again. “Really well, actually. But now you’ve raised attention. Ditch it.”

“Those are your conditions?” I can’t imagine deleting it completely.

“That’s one. My second—every news station and half the city is questioning why you were at Navy Pier during the attack. People are suspicious. Convince them it was a coincidence. Get them off your back. As soon as you do, I’ll figure this out for you.”

I squirm in my seat. “What do you want me to do? Join Cullen out there talking to the cameras and make some dramatic statement?”

“You need to protect yourself,” Adam says. I’m not used to his serious side lasting so long. “One small slip could get you killed.”

Like my dad.

“Don’t give that half-wit any more attention, but talking to the media might be worth it. The cameras suck—I get that—though at some point, your life needs to be more important than your pride.”

I nod reluctantly before turning toward the cafeteria windows. Just outside of them Cullen is giving some kind of statement, his face drawn to imitate concern. I can only imagine what lies he’s feeding them so he can play boy hero.

I can only imagine what lies I’m going to have to create myself.

Chapter 8

CHAPTER 8

During advisory at the end of the day, while Mr. Mater drones on about a student council food drive and tryouts for the upcoming musical, I count three news teams on the school’s front lawn, waiting to ambush me the second I walk out the doors. When my dad died, they were more discreet. Aside from Emi Vega, who nagged me for an exclusive, cameras filmed me from a distance. They wanted nothing more than a shot of the fatherless girl walking around looking sad and pathetic.

They weren’t as lenient with my father. Every local station slandered his name. They made him out to be a narcissist and called his case against Morrell erroneous and self-serving.

This time, I can tell they’re out for blood. They check their watches beyond the school property lines, ready to swoop in and pick at my wounds like starving vultures.

Like the Swarm.

I grab my phone and key in Jeremiah Dopney. It takes two links before I find an update. “Northwestern Hospital spokesperson said Dopney is still in the ICU in critical condition . . .”

He has to pull through. I can’t handle spending my life knowing I should have tried harder to save his.

I tap the home button to check the time. Two news banners pop up. The Tribune: “Was Lia Finch the Real Target?” and the Sun-Times: “Does Lia Finch Know More than She’s Letting On?” I toss my cell back into my bag and shove it near the bottom.