Free The Invisible by Amelia Kahaney Page A

and hard that I regret having downed the espresso. “But why?”
    But even as I say these words, my thoughts latch on to the logic of the act. Half your money . Taking away half of the North’s excess.
    “Why do scum like this do anything?” my dad says under his breath. “Need for attention. Insanity. Who knows?”
    “As chair of the gala,” my mother says, “I’m going to do what I can to redirect the funds to the museum this year. God knows they’ll need all the help they can get. We can’t have a gaping hole there. Whatever’s left of the structure will be destroyed.”
    I nod, numb to what she’s saying as I stare out at the festering hole in the city’s skyline, the black smoke and char like a wound.
    “Anyway, kitten,” my dad cuts in, “the city is on high alert. Serge is driving you today. And he’ll be there to pick you up. Dance class will be cancelled, I’m sure. You’re to come straight home after school, okay? Just until they figure this out and catch these creeps.”
    “Okay.” I nod as if I actually believe the city and its useless, bought police can do anything at all to catch Invisible. I think of Gavin’s handwritten list, the names of all those cops he paid off. People like that can’t be trusted to care about anything.
    You want something done around here, you have to do it yourself.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
    HarperCollins Publishers
    ..................................................................

CHAPTER 9
    At school, everyone looks ashen. Eyelids are swollen from crying. Martha’s locker has become a shrine—teddy bears, horse memorabilia, pictures, notes, candles, and dozens of bouquets spill out onto the floor, the pile six lockers wide.
    “Attention, students, please report to the cathedral for a special morning assembly,” Principal Bang’s monotone bleats through the loudspeakers. It’s going to be about Martha, of course. I skirt around the edge of the flower pile, wishing I’d thought to bring something.
    Everywhere, girls are crying in the hallways. I feel sick when I see Team Ice, the group of juniors who were Martha’s closest friends, hugging each other, shoulders shaking. I run to the bathroom and make it into a stall just before heaving up whatever’s in my stomach.
    Afterward, I flush it down and grimace at the bitter taste. While I’m crouching in the stall on the cold tile floor, I eavesdrop on a conversation between two girls standing at the sinks.
    “Still, I bet he’s hot.”
    “Wasn’t him who offed her. One of his people. The thing at the museum was ridiculous. I mean, that took guts.”
    “Serious guts. He’s like Robin Hood or whatever. Evening the scales.”
    “I heard he’s only twenty-one.”
    My empty stomach lurches when I hear one of them emit what sounds like a dreamy sigh. I push open the stall door and size them up. They’re barely pubescent fourteen-year-old girls, freshmen, one of them brandishing a pink lipstick, the other brushing on a shimmery eye shadow.
    “I heard he’s forty and has a deformed face,” I say. “Also that he likes to shoot young girls in the head.” I bring my index finger up to the shorter, blonder one’s forehead and press an imaginary trigger. “Bang bang. Serious guts.”
    “Stop it.” She steps away from me, glaring. “Leave us alone.”
    “If you don’t like the idea of a gun to your head,” I say as I wash my hands, “you might want to reevaluate crushing on a killer. It’s a great way to ruin your life. It’s also stupid and sad.” Trust me. I know. Gavin was exciting and dangerous, and look how much fun that turned out to be.
    “Whatever,” they mutter and hurry out. The taller girl drops her lipstick and doesn’t notice, and I stare at the black tube as it skitters across the tile. The bathroom door swings shut on its stoppered spring, leaving me alone with my reflection: hollowed-under eyes, colorless cheeks. But my eyes glow that vibrant green again. The color