I’m about to burst through the doors when someone grabs my elbow. I spin around, ready to punch, and find Cullen Henking.

He flashes a one-dimpled smile, clearly amused by my reaction. “Easy, there. You don’t want them to catch you looking jumpy and spastic on camera.” He clucks his tongue. “Somewhat suspicious—like you’ve done something wrong. Bad for the image.”

I straighten my sweater, my bag. “I almost died Saturday,” I say, angry with myself for sounding too defensive.

Cullen’s smile deepens. “Good thing my dad pulled you from the lake when he did,” he says in a sarcastic way, like we both know it’s a lie.

I turn toward the window. At least Emi isn’t out there.

Cullen steps beside me. “You know, my car is on the other side of the fence.” He gestures to his black Lexus parked in front of a fire hydrant, two steps past the courtyard’s exit. “We could walk right past the cameras,” Cullen says. “I’ll take you home.”

I snort. “You can’t be serious.”

He leans against the doorframe. “I’m willing to bet you’d do just about anything to avoid those reporters, which includes accepting a ride with me as much as you’d despise it.”

I scrutinize his expression, trying to figure out his angle. Either I’ve grossly underestimated Cullen’s narcissism or there’s something more to his charade.

“In seventh grade, you posted a picture of me yawning on Instagram and called me the ugliest girl in school.”

Cullen breaks out laughing. “Oh God, I forgot about that.” He bends over like he can’t control himself. “I’m sorry, but have you ever seen the face you make when you yawn?” He puts his hand on my shoulder. Composes himself. “Would it help if I told you you’re pretty, Lia?”

I jerk away. “I hate you more than I do those cameras.” I lift my chin. “I’m actually about to give my statement.”

Instead of looking surprised, Cullen opens the door and stands aside. “Fair enough. Your funeral.” He winks, still snickering. “Too insensitive for the girl who ‘almost died’?”

I grab the straps of my bag slung across my torso and brush past Cullen through the second set of doors. Before I hit the third step, the news teams rush toward me. Three cameras crowd my personal space. Their black lenses and tiny red lights. I’m caught halfway down the school’s front steps, worried if I keep walking, I’ll miss a step and fall down the concrete stairs.

Three reporters talk over each other.

“Amelia, how do you feel today?”

“Why were you at Navy Pier on Saturday?”

“Did you know there would be an attack?”

The questions jar me. I’d expected them, but not so abruptly.

I mask my face. Sullen. Lifeless.