The Masked Truth (26 page)

I keep thinking about what we went through. No, that’s not exactly true. I keep
feeling
what we went through. Reliving not the horror of that warehouse but the parts that weren’t horrible. The parts with Max, the ones where he went from being the jerk at the back of the room to the guy who’d held my hand when I thought I was dying, who’d sworn I wasn’t dying—not just gentle and empty words but words he’d meant, passionately meant, as if he could stave off my death with them. I remember the boy who kissed me, tasting of fear and panic. I remember all that, and I remember how I felt about him. How I
feel
about him. And now finding out this? It hurts. It hurts so much.

But this isn’t the time for recriminations. As angry as I am, I acknowledge that he did warn me, in his way, and even if his explanation had been a lie, the warnings had not. He had made sure that if anything went wrong—if he started seeing or hearing things—I wouldn’t be caught off guard. So I’ll give him that, and while it does take the edge off my anger, it doesn’t ease the hurt. The only way I’ll deal with that is to face him and get his side of the story. First, though, I need to be prepared. To fully understand his condition.

So I continue my research.

On a scale of grave mental illnesses, schizophrenia is near the top. It isn’t a temporary bout of depression. It’s serious, and it’s life-altering, and it’s permanent. While I hate to give Sloane’s snark any credence, schizophrenia really is what most people think of when they say someone’s crazy. It’s the homeless guy arguing with himself. It’s that story in the news, the one where someone was murdered horribly and all you can think is “How can someone do that?” and
the answer is “Schizophrenia.” But it’s not always like that. It’s not
often
that, the same way the average person with PTSD isn’t likely to snap and start shooting from a balcony. The extreme cases are the scary ones, though, and those are the ones that make the news.

Schizophrenia, like many mental illnesses, isn’t easily treated. In fact, it’s one of the toughest, because not everyone suffers the same symptoms. Max clearly doesn’t have a problem with personal hygiene. Nor does he seem to have any trouble with social interaction. Most schizophrenia symptoms can be controlled with medication, which must be tailored to the individual and the symptoms. The side effects are not negligible. They can include drowsiness or restlessness, tremors, muscle spasms, blurred vision … the list goes on.

There is no question of anything—and I mean
anything
—we experienced in that warehouse being Max’s fault. The only event I hadn’t witnessed myself was Aaron’s death. I remember how freaked out Max was, and now I know why. He must have been questioning the sequence of events himself, because the thing about a mental illness like schizophrenia is that you don’t know when a situation isn’t what it seems. You might know it’s possible you’re imagining it, but when it’s actually happening, there must be no way to tell reality from fantasy.

Everything I read says most people with schizophrenia can’t tell the difference while they’re experiencing an episode. That’s why Max had panicked. He knew his meds had run out, and he was terrified he had somehow played a role in Aaron’s death.
That’s
what I remember—his terror—and that’s when I truly forgive him for not telling me the truth.

He warned me, as best he could, in case something went wrong. What he has, though, isn’t something to be taken lightly, to be shared in casual conversation. I hate to talk
about my anxiety and my depression. I’ve seen how people react to it. Now—through Sloane—I’ve seen how they react to schizophrenia, and I suspect her response is actually relatively benign, if inconsiderate and infuriating. Say “schizophrenia” and people remember those horrible news stories, and having seen that terror on Max’s face, I think that’s what he recalls too. But he did nothing wrong Friday night. The evidence in Aaron’s death supports Max’s story completely. Now I just need to make sure the police know it.

Two detectives arrive about thirty minutes later. I’m still online, watching videos of people talking about their experiences with schizophrenia, because I want to understand. After everything Max did for me, I owe it to him to try—as best as an outsider can—to understand.

The detectives are two guys named Buchanan and Wheeler. I don’t know either, and I’m disappointed by that. I’d hoped they’d be familiar faces, detectives who knew me from Christmas parties or summer picnics. Detectives who had some idea what kind of girl I am—not the sort to get “confused” or lie for a boy. But it’s a big-enough city that I don’t know every cop and detective. Far from it.

As Buchanan grills me, I realize they honestly believe Max did it. There’s absolutely no doubt in their minds, and all they’re doing now is gathering evidence to prove it so they can charge him. Meanwhile, he’s being “held” in the psychiatric ward downstairs, apparently because his mother was such a pain in the ass that they agreed to let the hospital hold him rather than put him in a cell.

Kudos to his mother, then. But her fight isn’t helping change their minds about him, because these two seem as ignorant as my sister when it comes to schizophrenia. I hate saying that. I really do, because I realize there’s a
stereotype of cops as dumb bullies, and most are the polar opposite of that.

Maybe these two have just seen too many violent schizophrenics. Maybe they had a really bad case where one committed some terrible crime. Maybe they don’t know anyone with schizophrenia beyond the scope of policing. Whatever the excuse … well, there is no excuse, but whatever the cause, they have made up their minds. There is a schizophrenic teen and six bodies, and the link is obvious.

After they leave, I calm down enough to sort through the “facts.” I make notes so I can help Max, and as I do, as much as I hate it, I can see why the detectives have concluded Max is guilty.

Because there is no proof that we were kidnapped.

Predator must have survived his injuries. They’d removed Cantina and cleaned up all evidence that they’d ever been there.

As we’d guessed when we escaped, they faked their contact with the hostage negotiator—it must have been another partner playing Agent Salas. They’d never contacted anyone. At all. While we were running for our lives, our families had carried on with their Friday night, believing their kids were safely at a therapy sleepover.

That made no sense. The purpose of kidnapping is to make demands. So I can’t blame the detectives for thinking something is seriously wrong with this scenario. When they learned one of our group had schizophrenia, they must have thought, “Aha!”

At that point, the fact they had a living witness who said that wasn’t how it happened should have made them take a harder look. Maybe it did. But in talking to them, I got the feeling they didn’t consider me a real witness. I had “problems,” as they described it. I’d “been through a lot,” they said.

There’s only so much one person can take, Riley. Eventually something has to give, and you’re so young and you’ve had so much happen. First your dad, and then the people you babysat for, and I know how terrible that must have been
.

Do you, Detective Buchanan? Do you really? You can’t. Sorry.

Part of it was my youth, but I got the feeling they might not have been so quick to decide I’d been unduly influenced if I had a Y chromosome. I’d lashed out earlier with Mom, wondering if they thought I was susceptible because I’m a girl and Max is a cute guy. That actually did seem to play a role in the detectives deciding I’d fallen under his spell. He’s cute and charming and a year older than me and has a British accent. No, seriously, Buchanan actually said that.

I know my daughter loves boys with accents. Especially British. She goes nuts for those One Direction kids. It’s the accent. It makes them sound like something out of romance books, with lords and earls and whatever. Girls love that stuff
.

Actually, no, detectives, I have issues with the class system and its lingering effects on British society
.

Buchanan just thought I was being a smart-ass then, and commented that I must have gotten along really well with Max.

So there it is. I’m not a valid witness because I have mental health issues, I’m under eighteen and I’m a girl. And Max is a cute boy. With an accent.

There’s more. I wish I could say there isn’t, because by that point I just wanted to paint them as incompetent morons, not merely jumping to conclusions but skydiving onto them.

The lack of evidence to support our story is one strike against Max. Me as the only witness is another. There’s Brienne too, of course, but she hasn’t woken up. I pray she’ll recover, and that has nothing to do with helping Max’s case,
because I get the feeling nothing she says will help him. I need hard evidence.

They have that evidence. Or so they think.

Max was found with the gun that killed Aaron and Gideon. Aimee, Maria and Brienne were shot with Gray’s weapon and Lorenzo and Sandy with Predator’s, which ballistics should prove, but the detectives will only argue Max had backup weapons.

They have the knife used to stab me too. Like the gun, it has Max’s prints on it because he disarmed Predator. There aren’t any other prints. Our captors wore gloves.

So what do the police have as evidence? One messed-up witness. One comatose witness. Two weapons with Max’s prints all over them. They found preliminary gunshot residue on his clothing too. It also has bloodstains: Lorenzo’s, Aaron’s, Brienne’s and mine.

It’s damning evidence. I need to do more than protest his innocence, I need to prove it. Which means I have to figure out what the hell happened in that warehouse, where a teen therapy group was massacred for apparently no reason at all.

There
is
a reason. There’s always a reason. Now I have to find it.

I need to talk to Max. The possibility he can add more to my understanding of the situation is a good excuse. So is “offering support when he needs it.” I’m not sure he’ll want that support. The guy who sat in the back of the therapy room doesn’t strike me as someone who particularly wants to talk about his problems. Really, though, I just need to see him, to speak to him.

I’ve now been in the hospital nearly thirty-six hours. Awake for the past eight. That doesn’t mean I’m ready to start doing flying lunges and
passata sottos
, but I’m on my feet and ready to do battle in a very different way. Which is good, because in my current state of mind it’s probably best not to hand me a saber.

I don’t ask permission to leave my room. I pull on jeans and a shirt that Mom brought for “when I feel better.” Then I sneak from my room and down the hall.

I need to find the psychiatric ward. My plan is to take the stairs down a level—where no one will recognize me—and check out the hospital map by the elevator. I get into the stairwell, and I’m quietly closing the door when a voice says, “Going somewhere?”

I turn to see Sloane with her arms crossed.

“Wh-what are you—?”

“I saw you putting on your clothing and figured you were about to take an unauthorized stroll. Being unauthorized, I knew you’d leave this way. Dad’s not the only detective in the family. I learned a few tricks. Apparently you did too, sneaking down to hear Max’s side of the story so you can defend him.”

“What? No. Yes, I’m sneaking from my room, but only because I want …”

“A cigarette?”

I give her a look. “A candy bar. I’m hungry.”

“Great. Reese’s cups, right?” She reaches for the door. “There’s a vending machine in the waiting room. I’ll walk with you. I might even pay.”

“Aren’t visiting hours over?”

“Nice try, but no. As the immediate family of the poor kid who just went through hell—again—we’re allowed to stay as long as we want. Mom knows you don’t want to see her right now, so I promised to stay. All night. They’re bringing me a cot so I can sleep
right beside
you.”

“You don’t need to do that.”

“But I am. So two choices, kid. Either we hit the vending machine on the way back to your room or we hit it on the way back from Maximus’s room. Is that really his name? I looked it up, and it’s not even a real name. It’s Latin for ‘greatest,’ which is pretty damn optimistic. It also means ‘largest.’ ” She pauses. “Now that one’s more interesting.”

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Say what you’re going to say.”

She grins. “And how would you know what I was going to say unless your mind went in the same direction?”

“Yes, his name is Maximus, but he really prefers Max, so let’s stick with that.”

“Not crazy-British-dude?”

“Sloane …”

“What’s Brit-talk for ‘crazy’? Barmy, isn’t it? Can I call him that?”

“No, you cannot—” I take a deep breath. “You don’t understand.”

A moment of silence. Then, “No, I guess I don’t.”

“Can we talk about it later?”

She nods. I start to leave. She moves into my path. “We
are
going to see Max, Riley. I’m not stopping you. I’m just giving you a hard time.”

When I turn with a wary look, her lips press together before she says, “Seriously? What do you think I’m doing? Setting you up so I can tattle? Have I
ever
done that?”

“The tree house.”

“I was eleven, and I only did it because you’re Little Miss Perfect, and I was tired of being the one getting in trouble all the time. I wouldn’t do anything like that now, Riley.” Her voice drops, gaze meeting mine. “Not after everything that’s happened. I hope you know that.”

I nod. “Okay.”

“As for talking to Max, I agree you should, because this whole thing stinks of bullshit.”

I must look surprised, because I get another of those annoyed looks. “I might not get your grades, but I’m not stupid. I met Max while you were out cold. He seemed fine. Mom says it’s because he was back on his meds, but he couldn’t have gotten them more than an hour before I saw him, and they aren’t going to turn a raving lunatic into a normal guy that fast. Hell, if he was anything
close
to raving when he came in, they’d have put him straight in the psych ward. So I don’t know what’s going on, but if you tell me you were kidnapped, then I believe you. Mom would too, if she wasn’t so freaked out.”