The Masked Truth (22 page)

“What?”

“Tell me a secret I wouldn’t guess. If I could guess it, then that means I’m only imagining you saying it and—”

“I’m glad Darla Porter moved away,” I blurt.

He goes still and his brow furrows.

“The little girl whose parents died,” I say. “She went to live with her grandparents in Arizona, and I was glad, because it means I don’t have to ever see her again. I’m certain she hates me, blames me for what happened, for not saving her parents, so I’m glad she’s gone, and I know that’s cowardly—”

I’m babbling, barely hearing what I’m saying, and then he’s got my face between his hands and he’s kissing me. Just a press of his lips to mine, stopping me mid-sentence, and then he backs up, but barely, still close enough for me to see nothing except his eyes. His thumbs rub against my cheeks, wiping away tears I didn’t know were there.

“I won’t say she
doesn’t
blame you,” he says. “Everyone must tell you that, and it doesn’t help, does it?”

I shake my head.

“It doesn’t help, because they don’t know if she does or doesn’t, and neither do I and neither can you. But I do know you aren’t to blame. And I do know
that
doesn’t really help either, despite everyone saying it. I wish you didn’t feel that way, Riley, but I understand why you do.” He gives me a
quick embrace, arm’s-length so he doesn’t hurt me. Then he moves back. “Thank you. I’m sorry that I … I stumbled a bit there.”

“We all do sometimes.”

He nods. “Some of us more than others. But thank you for pulling me back. And thank you for being so good to me.”

“You deserve it. Most of the time, anyway.”

He chuckles as we part, and I try to cover another grimace of pain as I say, “But you owe me a secret after this.”

I’m teasing, but when I say it, his expression falters, eyes clouding, and I start to make light of it, ensure he knows I was kidding, but then he says, “I do.”

“You don’t have to. I was just—”

“No, fair’s fair. And I should, anyway. After all this. Best to get it out in the open, though it might be a little more than you expect.”

I think of his father, of what I suspect. “I might already know …”

I trail off and wish I hadn’t said that, because I don’t think he’d want me speculating, but instead of withdrawing, he smiles, and this is a new smile, even better than the last. This one stops me in my tracks. It’s a little bit uncertain, but mostly it’s pleased with an undercurrent of something like hope, cautious hope, and it’s like ripping off a mask and seeing what’s under it, that bottom layer, and I stare at him for a moment, and when I pull my gaze away, I can feel my cheeks heating, because I see that smile, and there’s a little bit of me that doesn’t
want
to walk out the door now, that knows everything will change once we do, and it’s not just that I want to stay in touch, that I want to talk. It’s more. And I’m afraid that after we walk out that door, I’ll never see that smile again.

I turn away, but I move too fast, and I gasp and stumble, and when I go down, I cry out. I can’t help it.
The pain. Oh God, the pain
.

Max drops beside me, helping me up as he’s cursing and saying, “What the hell am I doing? Not the time for me to lose it. You don’t need that; you need a bloody paramedic.”

“There isn’t one out there.”

He shakes his head. “There must be. I saw someone coming around that corner, and I panicked. My fault. Being daft. The police are out there. They have to be. They’ve just withdrawn. Now let’s get you …”

He’s opening the door, and he trails off, and I think he hears Gray. But he’s looking to the side, and I follow his gaze, and I let out a yelp, my hand flying to my mouth as I do.

I see what he does and there is a moment when I feel what he must have, earlier. That this is not real. Cannot be real. And here is the proof. Here is …

It’s Sandy.

Sandy’s body. Slumped over a box. A hole in her forehead. A perfect hole in her forehead.

“Th-they killed …” I can’t finish. “Predator. He took her to the front door. And then he … But that’s not …” I turn. “Max?”

Now I’m the one pleading, wordlessly, for reassurance.
Tell me I’m seeing things. That it’s all too much, and I’ve snapped
. But the look on his face says otherwise.

Before he can say a word, I catch the clomp of footfalls. Max grabs my hand. Not my arm now. He takes my hand, and we race out of the room, and he yanks open the front door, and when he sticks his head out, he curses. Then he pulls me through, and I see the figure from earlier. It’s not a guy holding a gun. It’s a homeless man with a bottle.

Max drops my hand and runs to the man and says, “Is there anyone else here?”

The man backs away.

“Please,” Max says. “I’m not going to hurt you. Just tell me, is there anyone here?”

The man continues retreating, his hands raised now, his gaze fixed on Max, who’s barefoot, his shirt smeared with blood.

“
Was
there anyone?” Max says. “Please—”

That’s when the man sees the gun dangling from my hand. He runs, and Max starts after him. Then we hear a
“Hey!” and I see that the door didn’t shut completely behind us. Gray’s footfalls pound down the hall. I slam the door, and that only makes it worse, the sound reverberating. Max is back at my side now, yanking me away.

We run. That’s all we can do. There’s no one out here. No one except a homeless guy with a bottle, and he wouldn’t be here if there was a SWAT team positioned around the corner.

No, be honest, Riley. There can’t be a SWAT team poised around the corner, because you’d hear them. You’d see the lights. There’s no reason for them to hide.

There’s no way they packed up and left. No way Gray promised them Sandy, and then Predator decided to shoot her instead, and the negotiation team just let that go.

There is no SWAT team. There never was any SWAT team. Never any hostage negotiator.

How is that possible? How? We—

I fall.

I don’t stumble over anything. I’m running and I just drop because the pain is unbelievable. I try to ignore it. We need to get farther, to get away, and I can’t slow Max down, can’t let him know how much I’m hurting. Can’t let him see that every running step is like a knife through me, every breath burns, and fresh blood is gushing from the stab wound. I’m pushing and I’m pushing and … and then I’m not. Then I collapse.

“I’ve got you,” Max whispers as he crouches beside me. “I’ve got you.”

I know
.

“Just a little farther,” he says as he looks around.

I struggle to focus over the haze of pain. I was letting him lead and hadn’t even seen where we were going. He’d cut left, past the warehouse and into the ruins of a demolished building. That was the only nearby “shelter” in any
direction. The nearest buildings are a cluster at least a hundred feet away.

“I-I can’t,” I say, and it physically hurts to admit that, but I have to. I can’t lie. I can’t pretend. For his sake, I can’t or we’ll be halfway between this bit of sheltered ground and those buildings and I’ll collapse for good.

“Is it your leg?” he says. “You can lean on me.”

He’s moving to check my leg and the moonlight catches the front of my shirt. It shines wet. Soaking wet. He touches it and lets out a string of profanity edged with panic as he tugs up my shirt.

“No,” he whispers. “No, no, no.”

“Just find me a place and go for help.”

“I knew it was bad. I saw that. Bugger it, I
saw
that.”

“Max?”

My breath comes hard and ragged now, and there’s no way to disguise it. I start to tell him again just to help me get to a better spot. That’s when we hear the tramp of Gray’s boots.

Max picks up the gun. He aims it in Gray’s direction, but I smack my hand against the barrel.

“Don’t,” I say.

“I’m not going to let him find you, Riley,” he says. “And after everything he’s done, I don’t care if I kill him. In fact, I’d be quite happy—”

“No,”
I say. “It’s too far away, and if you miss, he’ll know exactly where we are.”

Max gives a strained laugh. “The logical answer. All right, then. But if he comes closer, I
will
shoot him.”

We peer over the long grass and rubble. Gray stands in the parking lot. He’s swearing loudly enough for us to hear every word. Then he turns toward the closest of shelter: this demolished building.

I reach for the gun. “I’ll do it.”

“No. And we’re not fighting over the gun, either. If someone’s shooting him, it’s me. I can— I have— It’ll be better if I do. They can claim …” He swallows. “Never mind. I’ll do this.”

“I can aim. I can shoot.”

“Too bad. You’re not.”

He waves me to silence. I don’t want him doing this, but I don’t know how to get the gun from him without doing something stupid and dangerous, and he’s lining up the shot, and I’m thinking madly, and …

A bottle drops. It clinks to the pavement and rolls, and I know it’s the homeless guy, maybe peeking around the corner to see what’s going on. All Gray hears, though, is a noise, and he turns, his gun rising, and the homeless man lets out a yelp, and his footsteps thunder as he runs. Gray follows.

“We need to get over there.” I point at the nearest buildings. “Quickly.”

Max nods, and he puts his arms under me, as if to carry me, but I manage a choked laugh, one that I swear is going to make me pass out from pain.

“Nice try, but no,” I whisper. “Just help me up.”

We rise as soon as Gray turns the corner of the building, vanishing from sight.

I took acting lessons a few years ago, knowing my mother dreamed of me on the runway, and remembering her commenting once that acting lessons helped. I will not say I was good at it—I barely landed a third-string place in the school play. But tonight, as we make our way from the ruins to that building, I call on every iota of acting ability I have.

Each step rips through me. My brain screamed for me to stop, just stop, that I’m making it worse, but I have to keep moving, as fast as I can. As fast as Max will let me. My arm is over his shoulders and his is around my waist, supporting
me and trying to slow me down, but I won’t let him. Any second now, Gray will realize he’s chasing the wrong person. Any second now.

Oh God, I can’t do this. Can’t, can’t, can’t
.

Will, will, will.

Fifty more steps. My shirt is soaked with blood and I feel more running down my stomach.

Twice in those fifty steps, the world fades and I almost lose consciousness. Then, as soon as we reach the first building, whatever willpower I had collapses in on itself. I stumble and then … and then nothing. I black out.

I come to with Max over me, frantically trying to wake me.
Please, please, please just wake up, Riley, don’t do this, not now, we’re there, we’re finally there, just come back, come back to me
.

That’s why I do it. I come back to him, for him, because I owe him, and maybe that makes no sense, but in that moment it’s what counts, that he’s in a panic and I need to be okay for him.

Except I’m not okay. I’m really,
really
not. But I manage to surface to consciousness and my eyelids flutter open, and I get my reward then, the biggest sigh of relief, his blue eyes flooding with it as he leans over me, his skin so pale that his freckles seem like connect-the-dots across his nose, and I focus on them, my brain loopy, like the time I had nitrous oxide, and I lie there, imagining tracing constellations from those freckles.

I reach up and brush back a piece of his hair and realize he’s lost the band I gave him, it’s fallen out or mostly out, and I tug off another and hold it for him, and he takes it and he just shoves it over his own wrist, then he hovers there, over me. He bends and his lips press against mine, not a kiss, not really, just that quick press that tastes of sweat and fear and relief and yet still fear, and my mind keeps looping around, not quite able to take hold.

Then he’s fussing, making me comfortable as he says he’ll be right back, just going for help, be right back and here’s the gun, and try not to move, there’s no sign of Gray, just wait and …

Except I can’t wait. Can’t. I wish I could, but I can’t. I keep going around and around, and each time I’m a little closer to the abyss, only it’s not the same one as before, not a temporary resting spot for my overburdened brain. I know what it is. I know what’s happening.

Dying. I’m dying.

I should fight. I want to fight. But I already did, and there’s nothing left, and Max is rising now, and then I realize what’s about to happen, that he’s going, leaving me alone, and that’s when the fear hits, the animal panic, as I think of my dad.

I grab Max’s hand. “No.”

He squeezes mine. “I won’t be gone long.”

“No. Please, no.”

He tries to tug again, but now I do hold on, with everything I have, and the tears come, and he sees them and kneels beside me and whispers, “I won’t be gone long.”

“Don’t leave me. Please. I-I-I’m not going to … I can’t …”

I don’t say it, but he knows and fresh panic sparks in his eyes. “No, you’re fine. You’ll be fine.”

“I’m not. I won’t be. Don’t leave. Please, please, please. I don’t want to be alone.”

He looks around frantically, as if a car will suddenly appear. An ambulance stocked with paramedics.

“Max? Please. Just stay with me. It’ll only be a minute.”

That ignites the panic into full-blown fire, and he turns to me, saying, “No. Don’t say that. You’re fine. You’ll be fine. We can do this. Just hold on. You’ll be all right.” He
squeezes my hand and leans over me. “I swear it, Riley. You’ll be all right.”

“Right as rain,” I whisper.

And everything goes black.

Max runs headlong down the empty street.

Empty. Why is it empty? How the bloody hell can it be empty?

Because it’s almost midnight in an industrial area, and everyone is carrying on as if nothing happened, because for all anyone knows, there’s a lovely little group therapy weekend happening at the former warehouse up the road, and really, that’s none of our concern, so let’s just carry on, shall we? Nothing to see here. Just a group of barmy teens quietly enjoying some much-needed therapy. Basket weaving, perhaps.