The Masked Truth (27 page)

I say nothing and she continues, “They had to give her stuff to calm her down, Riley. Valium or whatever. While you were being treated. She didn’t want to take it, but the doctor said she needed to be calm for you when you woke up. So she took the pills and obviously it wasn’t a good idea, because she’s out of it.
She’s
the one who’s confused. Not thinking straight. So now I need to step up. Play the adult. Yadda, yadda.”

“Which means helping me sneak in to see Max?”

“I’m only eighteen. I’m still working on the responsible-adult thing.”

I shake my head, and we go down the stairs two flights. The next hurdle: finding Max’s room. As we start down the hall, I see I’ve made another mistake. This isn’t like the other wards, where you can walk along rows of open doors and peek inside. The doors here are all closed. Luckily, Sloane came prepared with a room number. But the location means there’s no getting past the nurses’ station without being spotted.

As we’re considering our next move—Sloane suggests rappelling down to the window from the floor above—the nurse on duty heads off on her rounds. Which leaves a med intern sitting behind the counter, hard at work and seemingly unlikely to leave.

“I’ve got this,” Sloane says.

She motions for me to stay hidden around the corner. Then she walks to the counter. When she speaks, it’s in a tone I know well: a little breathier and higher-pitched than her usual voice, and a whole lot less confident. I once called it her helpless-kitten voice. “Um, no,” she said. “My helpless-kitten voice is much softer. This is my helpless-
sex
-kitten voice.”

She uses that voice to explain her dilemma to the hapless young intern. Her sister—her poor little sister, Riley Vasquez … perhaps he’s heard of her, the one who’d saved a little girl when her parents were horribly murdered and now barely survived another attack? Yes,
that
Riley. Poor baby. She’s
having
such
a hard time of it and now people are saying all these things about the guy who’d saved
her
, and she’s so confused and upset and sinking fast into depression, and given her injuries, she needs to stay strong, doesn’t she? Yes, the intern agrees, she does.

Which is why, Sloane says, her poor baby sister just needs a few minutes—
a few minutes
—to speak to Max Cross. She needs resolution. She needs closure. And this young intern can give her that just by going to the restroom. Decide he really should scrub his hands or something. And Sloane would be grateful—so very grateful—and maybe, if he has time later, they can grab a coffee together in the cafeteria? Yes? Really? OMG, he has no idea how happy he’s made her. Squee! She could kiss him. But for now, she totally owes him a coffee. So if he can just take off before the nurse gets back …

My hands tremble as I walk up to Max’s door. I need to find exactly the right expression before I walk in. No apprehension. No uncertainty. No sign that I believe he did anything wrong. Also no sign that his condition changes my opinion of him.

But I also can’t rush in with smiles and hugs. I can’t seem too eager to reassure him, because that’s just as bad. It says I
do
have doubts but I’m trying very hard to pretend otherwise. I also can’t act as if what he has is no more serious than a common cold, because that’s as ignorant as giving him a wide berth.

Eventually, I just take a deep breath and push open the door, because it’s all I can do. I
feel
the right things. I know he didn’t do anything wrong. I know his condition is something neither to run from nor to brush under the rug. Most of all, though, I know
him
, and maybe that seems naive after only one evening together, but those hours felt like a lifetime, because they were, in a way—a brief period of time in which our lives could have ended at any moment and we completely relied on each other to make sure that didn’t happen. For those few hours, we were as unguarded as it got—no masks to hide behind.

Sloane stays in the hall while I tap on his door and then walk in. Max sits by the window, writing in a notebook.

Without turning, he says, “Yes, I had a shower. Two today, in fact, just so you’ll stop asking. I do not need a bath.”

“Good,” I say, “because I wasn’t going to give you one.”

He turns, and he smiles. No, not a smile—a grin, wide as can be.

“Riley,” he says as he rises. “I didn’t think they were allowing me visitors.”

“They aren’t.”

“You snuck in? Excellent. I am both impressed and flattered. But should you be up and around already?”

“I’m encouraged to make short forays from my bed. This was short. Relatively speaking.”

For a moment, he keeps grinning. Then he reaches up and rubs his hand over his mouth, wiping away the smile.

“So you heard,” he says.

I nod.

“I’m …” Another rub of his mouth. “I’m sorry, Riley. For not telling you. I just …”

“You don’t tell anyone unless you absolutely have to?”

“I considered getting it on a T-shirt, but the man at the shop couldn’t spell ‘schizophrenia.’ ” He makes a face. “See? Even joking doesn’t work. It just sounds rather desperate.”

“You did warn me—about the confusion, seeing things and such. So while I still think you should have told me, I won’t mention it again.”

“I’ll still apologize again.”

I walk over and I hug him. He tenses at first, but it seems to be surprise rather than resistance, and he pulls me into a quick, fierce hug as he says, “Thank you. For coming.”

“How are you doing?”

“Well enough. You’ve heard what happened? Why I’m still here?”

“Because they blame you. That’s bullshit.”

He blinks. Then he chokes a laugh.

“What?” I say.

“I’ve just never heard you curse.”

“Oh, I do. Just not out loud most of the time. This deserves cursing. It’s poor detective work and prejudice and—”

He presses a finger to my lips. “I know. Even worse is the way they’re dismissing anything you say. I can understand the conclusions about me. Not believing you is unforgivable. Still, I’m not worried. It really is just prejudice, and with a little detective work, they’ll sort it out. I don’t appreciate being stuck in here until they do, but …” He shrugs. “Mum has retained a barrister. He says it’ll be sorted in a day or two. Until then, I’m considering this a well-earned vacation. Even if the food is not quite up to snuff.”

“You’re doing okay, then?”

“Right as rain.”

I roll my eyes.

“Right as somewhat-inclement weather, then,” he says. “This too shall pass. I’m not concerned. Can’t be. This is my life now. The new normal for Max Cross.”

“I’m sorry.”

He makes a face again. “That sounded bitter, didn’t it?”

“No, it’s—”

“Honesty, Riley. These days, I really appreciate honesty.”

“It sounded frustrated.”

He nods. “Well, that too shall pass, I hope.” He shoves his hands into his pockets. “On that note, as long as we’re delving into the dark pit of honesty, is there anything you want to ask? These days, I’m something of an expert on the spectrum of disorders commonly known as schizophrenia.”

“I think I’m okay. I looked it up. By that I mean I researched it, not just that I read the Wikipedia page.”

He smiles. “Of course you did. Well, here’s the short version. Thankfully, I don’t experience hygiene issues. I do hit the markers for delusions. Not truly paranoid, but rather a run-of-the-mill inability to tell reality from the wild imaginings of my overactive brain. I’ve been on various medications, as they try to find the right mixture. They seem to have done it, which doesn’t mean I’m
cured
—I can’t be cured, and that’s not bitterness or frustration. It’s reality. Must face it.”

“You seem to be.”

He laughs. “I thought we were in the honesty circle here, Riley. I go to therapy and sit in the back and offer only mildly witty commentary. That’s not facing it. It’s not even coping, really.”

“But you’re taking your meds. I read that can be a problem. That people think they don’t need them.”

“Oh, believe me, I know I need them. But, yes, it’s …” He shrugs. “There’s always the worry that the meds will lose their effectiveness, and since I don’t notice when I’m off my trolley, I won’t see problems until it’s too late.”

“Off your trolley?”

He smiles. “Off my trolley, lost the plot, away with the fairies … I’ve got a drawerful of them. Feel free to add any to my collection.”

“Plumb loco?” I say. “Combining the English word ‘plumb,’ meaning depths, and ‘loco,’ which is Spanish for crazy.”

The smile grows to a grin. “I will add that one. If you have any Spanish idioms, I’ll take them too, though I won’t presume you know more Spanish than the average American, because that would be stereotyping.”

I laugh. “It would be, thank you. But my Spanish is better than average, as is my Latin.”

“Latin?”

“I’m Catholic. I also know some French, but only enough to get me through a freshman trip to Paris. I’m completely illiterate in British, though.”

“I can teach you.”

“Perfect.”

He’s about to say something when the door opens. Sloane walks in. “Time’s up, kids. You have five seconds to spit out your goodbyes.”

“I’ll be all right,” Max says to me.

I nod.

“You just take care of yourself,” he says. “Rest up. I’ll see you on the outside.”

I smile, and he leans over to kiss my forehead. Then he says to Sloane, “Note: the forehead. No liberties taken.”

“Shaking hands is highly underrated.”

He rolls his eyes.

“You think I’m kidding?” she says.

He puts out his hand for her.

“Not what I meant,” she says.

“Ignore her,” I say. “Take care, and if I can get down again, I will. Otherwise, I’ll see you on the other side.”

He smiles and shakes my hand, and I pull him into a quick hug, which earns something suspiciously like a growl from my sister. We say our goodbyes and part.

We’re back in the stairwell when Sloane says, “I wasn’t joking back there. You need to be careful with him.”

“We’re friends.”

“Good. Keep it that way.”

I sigh.

“I mean it, Riley. He’s got a thing for you.”

“I think he’s a little too preoccupied for that.”

“Guys are never too preoccupied for that. Or girls, for that matter. He likes you. He wants to be more than friends. The answer is no. I’ve already told him so.”

“Please tell me you’re joking.” I remember their little back-and-forth in the room. “You did, didn’t you?”

“He’s not boyfriend material, Riley. And before you give me shit, it’s not because he could flip out. That is a factor, obviously. It has to be. But he’s dealing with a lot, and you’re dealing with a lot, and those two things do not go well together. You don’t need romantic complications in your life right now. If he thinks he does, tough shit. I don’t care about him. I care about you.”

“I would say that’s very sweet, if it wasn’t also incredibly presumptuous and a bit condescending.”

“Good. I’d be more insulted by ‘sweet.’ Now that you know Max is fine—”

“I need to see Brienne.”

“She’s in a coma.”

“Which means it’ll be a short visit. And that you don’t need to accompany me.”

“Fifth floor,” she says. “Move it.”

Brienne is still comatose. The bullet grazed her spine and there’s swelling and the possibility of lifelong damage. Hence the coma, to give her body time to rest.

There’s no sneaking into her room, not in the ICU unit, but I’m glad of that. She’s the only “real” witness—the only one whose account the police might respect. If the killers realize that, they could come back to finish the job.

I worry that I might not be allowed to visit, but when I tell the nurses who I am, they let me go in with Sloane. We stand by Brienne’s bed. She looks as pale as the sheet pulled up around her. Machines hum and beep, but it’s a steady and reassuring sound as I hold her cool hand. Then I hear a voice in the hall.

“Brienne’s my sister,” a guy says.

I go still. The news said Brienne only has one brother, which means the guy out there is the one who sent her into that therapy sleepover. The guy who played lookout for the Porters’ killers.

I can’t move. I’m still holding Brienne’s hand, but I can’t even feel that. Sloane doesn’t notice. She’s busy listening as the nurse explains that Brienne already has visitors.

“Who?” her brother asks.

I grip the bedside with my free hand, fingers digging in, gaze tripping around the room for an escape.

How about hiding under the bed, Riley?

That snaps me back to myself. I can’t hide. I have to face him. I
should
face him, because now I know the truth, and as much as I might want to help Brienne, if this guy can lead me to the Porters’ killers, then I’m going to turn him in. Which means, eventually, I will need to face him. Might as well do it now.

“What the hell?” he says when the nurse tells him who’s in the room. “The girl who almost got my sister killed? You know what that crazy freak did, right? Her and her psycho boyfriend?”

Too late, I realize Sloane is on the move. She’s stalking out of the room, and I jump to pull her back, but she’s already in the hall, her heels clicking across the linoleum.

“Hello,” Sloane says. “Let me introduce myself. I’m the big sister of the
freak
you were just talking about.” A moment’s pause, then, “Hey, asshole, my eyes are up here. You can stop checking me out. You didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell even before you insulted my sister.”

“You little border-bunny—”

“Do I sound like I crossed a border recently? Do I look like a gangbanger? Damn, you are one dumbass, white-trash trailer-park cracker. Okay, your turn.”

“My turn for what?”

“Insulting me. That’s what we’re doing, right? Exchanging slurs? Or maybe you’re just dumbass enough to think I was complimenting you.”

Stop, Sloane. Please stop
.

Of course, she doesn’t. She’s just building up steam.