The Masked Truth (17 page)

“How long have you and Max been together?” Brienne asks, and I look back to see her peeking through the door.

“In therapy? A month.”

“I mean
together
.” When I start to protest, she lifts her hands. “It’s probably against the rules, I get that. You’ve been keeping it a secret so you don’t get in trouble.”

“No, we’re not—”

“That’s why he was slow to say you should leave first. He was afraid if he jumped in too fast, they’d realize you guys were a couple. That’s also why he grabbed you when he took off.”

I shake my head. “We’re not a couple. Really. We have two sessions a week together, and we’ve barely exchanged a dozen sentences. But when something like this happens …” I shrug. “You latch on to what you know. Familiar faces.”

“He didn’t want to leave you.”

“And I didn’t want him to leave. Aaron doesn’t like him and …”

“Aaron’s fine. He’s not a nice guy pretending to be a prick, but he’s a decent guy dealing with a lot of crap and maybe, yes, a little bit of a prick.”

“We all are,” I say. “Under the right circumstances.”

She gives a soft laugh. “Something tells me you’re the exception, Riley.”

“No. I can be a total bitch. Once, I called a girl at school a really rude name, and she barely even deserved it.”

She looks to see if I’m serious, and when I smile, she shakes her head. “I bet that really is the worst thing you’ve ever done.”

“No,” I say softly. “I’ve made mistakes.”

Before she can say anything, I set up the boxes the way Max had them.

“That is smart, you know,” she says. “He’s a smart guy.”

I smile over at her. “Even if he is a bit of a prick?”

“If I were that smart, I’d be a total prick. You’re both smart. And brave.” She nibbles at her thumbnail. “I don’t know how you’re doing it. Holding up like this. You have way more reason than anyone to be freaking out. But you’re not. You’re worrying about me. Worrying about Max. Taking charge. Making plans.”

“Running on pure adrenaline, I think. Wait until all this is over, and I’ll need a nice padded-room vacation followed by a lifetime of very expensive therapy.” I glance at her. “Do you think I can sue the Highgates for counseling?”

I’m kidding, of course, but she doesn’t smile. She looks away, her gaze dropping, and I shift, realizing that might have been in bad taste.

She wonders how I’m holding up. I wonder the same thing, and I’m afraid the answer really is adrenaline. That I don’t have a core of inner strength—I’m just a scared little girl, cushioned by shock, ready to fall apart for good when this is all over.

I say I’ve never considered suicide, but that doesn’t mean I don’t see the abyss. It started after Dad died, when I dragged myself through my days following the carrot of bedtime. Weeks when all I could think was,
Keep going, Riley. Just a
few more hours and you can run to your bedroom, close the door and curl up in the darkness, where no one can see you cry. Drop into the abyss. Wallow in grief and lose yourself there
.

It got worse after the Porters. The abyss is now wider and deeper, and it calls to me sometimes. The strangest times. I’ll be walking down the hall at school, Lucia or another friend chattering away beside me, and all of a sudden I can’t hear them. I imagine that the hall opens up and I just keep walking and fall into nothing. And it’s a wonderful nothing, like jumping from a plane. Just letting go. Except I’m not jumping without a parachute. That isn’t what I want—that hard and final stop at the end, that endless abyss. No, my fantasy is temporary. I drop into the abyss and shut off my brain and my feelings, and then I’ll come back up when I’m ready.

As the abyss widens, though, I begin to fear that coming back to the surface may, someday, not be under my control. Because at the bottom of my abyss is not death—it’s madness.

My greatest fear isn’t that I’ll kill myself; it’s that I’ll lose myself permanently. That it will all become too much, and my mind will snap, and I won’t ever come back.

That’s what I’m afraid of now. That I might think I’m on solid ground but I’m really on a bridge over the abyss, and with every step the moorings weaken, just a little, and as soon as I think I’m safely across, it’ll give way beneath me.

“I’m kidding,” I say finally. “About the therapy. We’ll be fine.”

She nods.

“What’s your group like?” I say, to change the subject with the first segue I see. “I know you said you hadn’t been in therapy long.”

“This is my first group.”

“Really?” I lean toward her and mock whisper, “It’s usually not like this.”

She laughs at that. Then she looks at me and says, “You are brave. I know you don’t think you are. You feel like you did the wrong thing that night when you were babysitting, and it doesn’t help when guys like Aaron make stupid comments. It’s easy to second-guess when you haven’t been there. It’s like watching a movie and thinking you’d never make the heroine’s mistakes, but that’s because you’re in the safety of your living room. You don’t know what you’d do until you’re there. Not really.”

I nod and try to think of a way to change the subject, but she continues, “I’ve seen guns before. My brother isn’t the only person in my family who has one. And I’ve probably seen more horror movies than I should. But when that guy shot Maria, all I wanted to do was drop and cover my head. Which is the stupidest and most useless thing I could have done. Then the guns kept firing and the blood was everywhere and people were screaming and …” She’s breathing fast, bordering on hyperventilating, and I put my arm around her and she leans against me and whispers, “See? I’m the one freaking out and you’re the one taking care of me.”

“I’ll freak out later. We can take turns.”

When I look over, tears are streaming down her cheeks.

I twist to face her. “It’s going to be okay. Aaron and Max will get the gun, and we’ll figure a way out. We can do this.”

She shakes her head so hard tears fleck my shirt. “
You
can do this. Me? I thought I was being tough. I thought I was being strong, doing the right thing even if I knew it wasn’t, but it was what I needed to do. Family first, right?” There’s a bitterness in her voice when she says that. Then she looks up. “Do you have a good family, Riley? I hope you do. I hope you have the best—” Her hand flies to her mouth. “Oh my
God, I can’t believe I just said that. I am a total idiot. Your dad. I forgot about—”

“He was a great father,” I say. “And I’m proud of what he did.”

Even if I wish he hadn’t. If I really wish he hadn’t. No matter how horrible a person that makes me, I wish he’d just hung back with everyone else and hoped the woman didn’t decide to kill herself and take her kids with her. Because that’s what happens, as much as I can’t imagine it. I remember talking to Dad about that once, when a guy in our city killed his wife and kids and himself, and the news said he’d left a note saying he did it because he loved them, and I’d been so mad, furious, because it made no sense.

Dad said that to some people, it makes perfect sense. The guy lost his job and was about to lose his house and all his savings over a bad investment, and he didn’t see a future for himself, and he couldn’t imagine how his family would survive without him. So he took them with him. Which wasn’t love. It was the most horrible self-centeredness I could imagine. Dad agreed, and we’d discussed it, and I know when he went to talk to that lady, after she threatened to “end it all,” that’s what he was thinking—about that case and others like it—but I didn’t care. Didn’t care at all. I just wanted him here.

Don’t do this. Brienne needs you to be strong. Present
.

“My dad was amazing,” I say. “My mom’s great too. Even my sister’s not bad some of the time.” I try to smile for that, but I know it’s a shitty smile, and then I remember what she was saying before I got distracted by thoughts of my dad.

“You said you thought you were doing the right thing. For your family. You mean therapy? They wanted you to go, and now, well, obviously …”

“I’m regretting it?” She tries for a smile and fails. Tears
fill her eyes again. “I don’t need therapy, Riley. Or maybe I do. You know what? Honestly? I think I do. I think I need a ton of therapy if I ever agreed—”

She shakes her head sharply, and I’m not sure what to say, beyond
I don’t understand
. After a moment, I say, “If there’s anything you want to talk about …” and she gives a sharp bark of a laugh, and my cheeks heat, as I realize how lame that sounds, how trite.

“Talk?” she says. “Confess, more like. I will. Because that’s as brave as I get, Riley.” She takes a deep breath and says, “I didn’t come for therapy this weekend. I came for you. To meet you. To talk to you. To get
you
to talk. That was the plan.”

When she doesn’t go on, I say, “Interview? For a school project? Or your school paper?”

“I wish.” She wraps her arms around herself and sinks lower against the wall. “Believe me, Riley, I’m not the kind of girl who’d go the extra mile for a project. Or join the school paper. Or the school
anything
. And yet, I’m the good girl in my family. The black sheep who actually cares about school, not because I bust my ass to get A’s but because I actually
go
, and I study enough to pass, which is as high as the bar gets for us. If I graduate high school, I’ll be the first in my family in two generations. And they’ll throw me a big party and tell me how proud they are of me.” She laughs bitterly. “No, they’ll probably set my diploma on fire to show me how worthless it is.”

“I—”

“I’ll tell you why I’m here, Riley. And I’ll do it before you fix that gun, just in case you decide to shoot me for—” Her hands fly to her face again. “Damn it, I’m sorry. I am such a stupid—”

I take her hands and pull them down. “Don’t say that. Just tell me.”

It takes a moment. Then her gaze lifts to mine, slowly but resolutely, as if she is indeed peering down the barrel of a gun and trying very hard not to flinch. “My brother was one of the guys who went after that couple you babysat for.”

I drop her hands. I don’t mean to, but I do, instinctively, as my gut clenches and I manage a strangled “Wh-what?”

“He didn’t shoot them. I swear he didn’t. He isn’t like that. He was standing watch. He owed these guys, and they needed a lookout. They said they were going to rough up that man—David Porter. Scare him. Only that’s not what they did, and my brother didn’t know what they had planned. I swear he didn’t know, Riley.”

“Okay …” I say slowly. “So you came here to talk to me …”

“I overheard my brother—River—talking on the phone a couple weeks ago, about the job. He caught me listening. He …” She inhaled. “He freaked. I tried to convince him to turn himself in, and he … well, he freaked out more. These guys have him scared shitless. Then, last week, he said he needed a favor from me. He’d heard a rumor that you knew more than you were letting on. That you were working with hypnotists and whatever to help you remember that day. He found out you’d be at this therapy camp, and he wanted to enroll me so I could get close to you and find out what you know. He arranged it all, pretending to be our dad.”

I’m quiet, processing, wondering how he could have found out I was at this camp, but Brienne takes my silence for anger and hurries on, words tumbling out.

“I didn’t know what else to do, Riley. I know that sounds cowardly. It
is
cowardly. But he’s my brother, and I want to help him. What I really wanted was for him to turn himself in and cut a deal. I talked to someone who said if he told his story and identified the killers, he probably wouldn’t even get jail time. But he’s scared. So scared. He’s not a bad person,
Riley. It’s how we were raised, and it’s all he knows. I was scared for him, so I agreed to help.”

She continues, “I
was
going to find out what you know. I had to, so I’d know if River was really in danger. But no matter what you said, I was going to lie to River. I was going to tell him that you heard a voice—one of the killers talking to a guy outside, and you looked out the window and saw River. That way, he’d have real reason to turn himself in. Both because you saw him and because you could confirm that he was outside when it happened. That he wasn’t the shooter. That …” She trails off. “That was my plan.”

“I understand,” I say.

She looks up, lips twisting in a wan smile. “No, you don’t, Riley. But thanks for saying it.”

“You didn’t have a choice.”

“Sure I did. I could have gone to the police. That’s what you would have done.”

“I have no idea what I would have done,” I say softly. “It’s like you said: you can’t know until you’re there.”

“Maybe. But I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

I put my arm around her. “Apology accepted. We’ll figure something out once we—”

A box clatters in the other room, and we both jump as a voice says, “What the hell?” It isn’t Aaron. Or Max. It’s Gray.

A simple word. A vastly overused word. But in this particular instance? The perfect word.

Mmm, not so sure there, Max
. I believe the word you actually want is “dismay.”

Dismay: to feel consternation and distress
.

You didn’t want to leave Riley behind, but it was, in fact, the proper response. The sensible one. Brienne is a bit of a mess, and she doesn’t much like you
—
shockingly—but she does like and trust Riley. Therefore, logically, Riley should stay behind and make sure Brienne doesn’t decide that what she needs—what you all need, really—is to throw yourselves at the mercy of your beneficent kidnappers
.

All right, perhaps leaving Riley was not stupidity. It still felt like it.

If he was being honest—let’s, shall we?—he might admit that there was a distinct advantage to being separated from Riley. He’s too busy worrying about her to think about himself.

Is that possible? Truly, Max? Can it be?