The Masked Truth (15 page)

She leans toward him, voice lowering more, and he knows she wants to say more, just for him, unheard by the others. He tries not to smile at that. It pleases him more than it ought to, because if he’s being honest—
yes, by all means, be honest, Max, God knows you have little enough practice at it these days
—he will admit that he was not entirely happy to bump into Brienne and Aaron. Of course, he was relieved to know they were alive, but he’d have been quite happy if they’d made contact and then gone their separate ways again. He even thought of suggesting it.

He might still, once they find the kitchen and if he’s sure, quite sure, that Riley won’t say:
All right. Why don’t I go with Brienne and you with Aaron?

Riley and Max sitting in a tree …

That was not the case at all.

Well, perhaps “at all” was a slight exaggeration.

Just a slight one, Maximus?

Yes, he might—just might—have a bit of a crush on Riley Vasquez.

Crush: deform, pulverize or force inward by compressing forcefully
.

A horrible word. Terribly inappropriate, because he had no desire to crush her, to smother her. In fact, he was most comfortable as things were, being this close to her and no closer, because he couldn’t be closer, all things considered.

Yes, all things considered.

Yet it was closer than he had been before tonight. And, yes, he would admit it now, he’d already had a crush on Riley Vasquez then, listening to her in therapy sessions—ah, how romantic. Listening to her, watching her, but not
watching
in a creepy way. Well, he supposed all watching
was
creepy, to some degree, but it was simply enjoying seeing her, paying extra attention when she spoke. It wasn’t as if he followed her into the toilet or anything. No, sir. He had only followed her
to
it earlier, not inside. He’d made his excuse to use the toilet in hopes of meeting up and talking to her, which was
not
creepy.

Nor was it entirely the action of an infatuated boy. No, Maximus. Honesty here,
total
honesty.

He was lonely.

There, he’d said it, somehow more shameful than admitting to a crush.

He’d never been a particularly convivial person. Gregarious but not too convivial. Yes, there was a difference.

Gregarious: fond of company
.

Convivial: cheerful and friendly; jovial
.

He could play at being convivial, of course, but there was an edge to it, a note that might just be a little condescending.

Might, Max?

In school, he’d been popular if not particularly well liked. Again, there is a difference. He could be difficult and sarcastic and argumentative, and he kept his circle of friends
small, his circle of acquaintances much larger. But he was smart—if a bit of a know-it-all. Athletic, though not unduly so. Decent-looking, though only in that rather average way that both sexes seemed to find pleasant and nonthreatening. And he was a bit of a joker, a prankster, the boy most likely to both issue and accept a dare. He was bold as brass, and it seemed less that others liked him than that they liked to be around him. He’d been chosen as head boy in school, and he suspected it was not so much that his fellow students wished to honor him as that they’d grudgingly agreed he was best for the position.

At home, his calendar was always full, with other engagements waiting, should a date or a night with his mates fall through. Since he’d come to America, his social circle had shrunk to four—his mother, his father, his doctor and his therapist, and only the first was there consistently, should he want to take in a film or go to the park, which he did not because he was eighteen and his mother was a fine person, but he was eighteen.

And so, he was lonely. Which meant that when Riley stuck close to him, even after rejoining the others, when she whispered only to him, it made him flush with pleasure, as if she’d whispered some much more naughty suggestion in his ear. More even, because, well, it was hardly the time for naughty. Although, if she did …

“Max?” she whispers. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

He nods. “A little distracted. Sorry. You said …”

“I was just saying I’m sure it won’t be long now. I thought I heard a siren when we were upstairs, but I didn’t want to mention it to the others and get their hopes up.”

Her hopes are already up. He can see that in the way her eyes glow. His, sadly, are not. He suspects no one heard his SOS or there would have been some reaction by now. Whoever is covering the rear of the building had been too
far away to overhear it. But he won’t tell her that. Instead, he nods and smiles, and she leans in again, whispering, “You just need to hold on a little longer. We’ll get you your meds.”

Ah, Riley. Sweet, sweet Riley. Always thinking of others even when you’re convinced you’re only thinking of yourself. You save a little girl’s life and what matters is that you didn’t save more. How can I not have a crush on you?

“I’ll be fine,” he says, and he will be. For her, he will be.

Speaking of sweet
 …

Shut the bloody hell up. For once, please. Just shut up.

It does. The voice that he won’t tell the doctors about, because it’s a sign. A bad, bad sign. And yet he’s always had the voice, and he suspects it’s not a voice at all, just his busy brain arguing with itself, seeing all the angles, needling him when needling is required. Except he knows, too, that it might still be a sign, one that says he’s always had this, lurking below the surface, biding its time. The schizophrenia monster, disguised as eccentricity and audacity, until it finally erupts in madness.

Riley holds out the blueprint, offering him the chance to lead the way. When he shakes his head, she keeps it, and he’s relieved, because he will hold it together—for her, he’ll hold it together—but it’s best not to rely on him. Just to be safe.

There are no knives in the kitchen. Am I surprised? Not really. We’re mental health patients, and I’m well aware of the suicide statistics, especially for teens, especially for those with PTSD and trauma-related depression and anxiety. I was made aware of them by my first therapist, who constantly poked and prodded for signs of “suicidal ideation.” I finally made the mistake of commenting that I find it hard to get through some days, and I just want to stop. I meant school—that there were days I wanted to take more time off, but I feared if I did, I’d never go back.

He misunderstood—rather willfully, I think. He’d been so hyperalert for signs that he immediately recommended suicide watch to Mom, and when I freaked out, the therapist said that proved I was considering it. My freak-out, though, did not come close to Mom’s. Directed at the therapist. Mom knew that no matter how bad I felt, it was never
that
bad, and that even in my worst moments, feeling like I didn’t deserve to live when the Porters had died, I’d never considered suicide. I wouldn’t do that to Mom and Sloane.

Yet there isn’t just a lack of knives in the kitchen. There’s a lack of a kitchen … or anything like a real one. The room is still under construction, with half-finished cupboards and
sinks not yet connected to a water supply. We were having food delivered for the weekend, and I’d thought that was just to make it easy on the counselors, but obviously there wasn’t an option. They brought in a mini-fridge and filled it with bottled water and soda, and there’s fruit and granola bars on the counter, but otherwise nothing.

We search anyway. Aaron stands watch in the hall. When we are almost done, he pops his head in with “They’re coming!” and we take off, all of us shoeless now, padding down the hallway at a jog, moving in the opposite direction of that relentless
thump-thump-thump
.

“You aren’t getting out,” Gray calls. “I know you kids are a little messed up, so let me explain it to you. There are two doors. If you have any brains at all, you’ve already checked and seen that they’re locked tight. I heard one of you banging away, so here’s a tip: it won’t help. Those doors are so thick you’d need a grenade to get through them.”

As he talks, we’re on the move, heading away from his voice, checking rooms for a good one to lie low in. I hang back, listening to his diatribe, in case there’s anything we can use.

“So you can pound and shout all you want, kiddies. I know it’s frustrating, having a whole hostage negotiation team just beyond those walls. Your parents too. Well, some of them. Sorry, Brienne, but no one showed up for you. And your dad, Aaron? He’s busy making financial arrangements for your release. Very slowly, though, which is why they think I’m not letting anyone else go. Personally, I think he just put in a call to his banker while he screws his new mistress. Who is, by the way, hotter than the old one, and a helluva lot hotter than your mom. Oh, she
is
outside. Your mom, I mean. At least someone cares, right? Of course, she has to play good parent if she wants all those child support payments. Your mom’s there too, Maximus, and Riley’s.”

My mom. Oh God, I really didn’t want that. She doesn’t deserve this. Not after everything she’s gone through. But I can’t think about that. Instead, I think of something else, something that is, right now, even more important.

And Gideon?
I want to shout back.
Maria? How about their parents? Their soon-to-be-grieving parents?

It would do no good. I saw what he did to Aimee, and I heard him laugh when Predator shot Cantina. There’s no capacity for guilt there. No conscience. He calls us crazy? He’s a damn psychopath. They both are.

We keep looking, but we aren’t finding a room. Most in this section are locked, and the rest are completely empty, giving us nothing to hide behind. Max whispers that we should head back to the room we were in last. I agree.

“I’d like to offer an apology.” Gray’s voice booms down the empty corridors. “Shocking, I know. But it’s in order. Things went off the rails earlier. Blame Gideon, and if he were still alive, I’d shoot him on sight—the moron. Maria didn’t help. I don’t know what she expected, running at me with a damned letter opener. Of course I shot her—all I saw was someone coming at me with a weapon. But enough blame. Things went wrong. We panicked. People died. You ran. Can’t blame you. That’s over now, though, and I think I have a solution. You guys come back. We’ll complete negotiations with Mr. Highgate. I won’t ask the other parents for money. Well, I’ll ask, but I won’t expect it. What counts is the big dog. He pays, and you all go free. Not before that, though. You’ll have to wait, because I can’t risk you tattling on me and jeopardizing our payday.”

No one slows. We keep checking doors and popping down side halls. And he keeps talking.

“What’s done is done. Can’t be fixed. But let’s not add to the body count. This will all go much easier if everyone takes a deep breath, calms down and cooperates.”

Max snorts. Brienne, though, slows to listen.

“Let’s stop this running-around nonsense,” Gray continues. “I’m sure you’re as tired of it as we are. And I’m sure you must be getting hungry by now.”

I catch up to Brienne and whisper, “Seriously? We’re running from gun-toting killers and thinking,
Huh, I could really use a snack
?”

“Actually, I was,” Max says, falling in as Aaron continues on ahead. “In fact, I may have grabbed a few granola bars when we were searching the kitchen. It’s been four hours. I’m bloody famished.”

“And now you have food,” I say. “Meaning we don’t need to stop and risk death so we can eat something.”

“I don’t know if I have enough to go around. Someone might need to surrender. You’ll volunteer, won’t you?”

“I would, but I’m not hungry. Maybe later.”

We’re talking past Brienne, who’s quiet but listening. We banter some more—silly jokes about snacks and guns that aren’t very funny, but the point is the banter itself, the shared verbal eye rolls that these guys would actually think we were stupid enough to surrender. Brienne’s hesitation evaporates, and she picks up speed, joining in with a few jibes about teen guys and food as we hunt for a hiding place.

Gray is still nattering on about “stopping this nonsense.” Just come out and we’ll all hold hands and sing campfire songs until Mr. Highgate coughs up the cash.

“I’d like Scotch,” Max says as we follow Aaron around a corner. “Sorry, ladies, but if he offers Scotch, I’m gone. It has to be at least fifteen-year single malt, though. Anything less will not do.”

“I’m holding out for a pony,” Brienne says.

“Too much work,” I say. “I’ll take a puppy.”

Brienne shoots back that a puppy is more work than a pony, and she’s relaxed now, paying no attention to Gray’s
cajoling. Max winks at me, and I smile, and I feel … I’ll admit it, I feel good seeing that wink. As good as I can under the circumstances. That wink is a connection. We both knew that Brienne was wavering, and without a word exchanged we solved the problem together, and that feels … yes, it feels good, or as close to it as I’ll get tonight. It’s a reminder that I’m not alone in this, that there’s someone I can rely on and trust, someone on my wavelength.

Dad used to say that—
we’re on the same wavelength, kid
—whenever we came up with the same idea. Now I understand what he meant. I get Max, and I don’t need to worry that he’ll want to surrender or stop trying to escape or just say “to hell with it,” and rush Gray with our letter opener and safety scissors and hope for the best. I wouldn’t do any of that. So neither will he.

I’m about to say I’m going to move ahead and help Aaron search when Max motions behind Brienne’s back that he’s going to go ahead to search, and I laugh under my breath. He arches his brows. I shake my head, smile and wave him forward while I keep an eye on Brienne.

“Here!” Max whispers. He’s opening a door to a room Aaron has already checked, and Aaron starts snapping something, but I see Max is gesturing, and I glance inside to spot an interior door. It’s right up near the front, meaning it’s obscured when the hall door opens. While Max stands watch, I dart in and check the second door. It opens into an empty room—which makes it less than perfect—but its hall door locks from the inside, which would give us an escape route.