The Masked Truth (34 page)

We’re heading out. River is in the lead. He drove, and his car is down the block. Max is right behind him. The knife is in Max’s pocket, but River seems in no hurry to test how quick he is on the draw. His concern is his sister.

Max makes River help me over the fence. I’m struggling
to stay upright and my only goal now is not to collapse. My side is burning and my legs keep threatening to give out. We scale the fence, and we’re walking to the corner when two figures turn it.

I don’t react at first. It’s a residential neighborhood. Two men in suits have just come around the corner, and I’m focused on moving forward and watching River. It’s River who reacts, stopping short and turning fast, about to run, and Max sees that and
he
reacts. He grabs River by the back of the shirt and then someone says, “Thank you, Max,” and we all go still.

I turn to the two men, one now taking River as Max grabs my arm, and the second man says, “Uh-uh. If you’re going to run, Max, please don’t take Riley. I think you’ve gotten her into enough trouble.”

It’s Buchanan and Wheeler, the detectives.

“It’s over now, Riley,” Buchanan says to me. “He can’t hurt you.”

I protest, saying that Max never hurt me, that it’s all a mistake, that we have answers now, and River is telling me to shut up, just shut the hell up, and Wheeler takes him and Buchanan is on his radio, calling for backup. Max is looking left and right, as if trying to figure out what to do.

Should we run?
Can
we run? No. We can’t, and I don’t see the point. We may not have everything we need, but we have answers, and the police have River. Time to let this play out.

I glance at Max, and it’s as if he’s read my mind. He’s nodding and indicating we should go with them, that it’ll be all right. So we let Buchanan lead us to their unmarked car while Wheeler waits for a backup cruiser to take River.

To say that Max accepts the current situation with alacrity would be an exaggeration, but not, perhaps, as much as one might think, given that he is in the back of a police car, disarmed, cuffed and about to be charged with mass murder.

Riley argued about the handcuffs. He stopped her and accepted them with something approaching alacrity. The end is near. He’s certain of it now. The police have River, and the young man will, as they’ve discovered, talk without even an application of implied force. He got in over his head, and he desperately wants out, and he wants to protect his sister, particularly since it was his own stupidity that got her into this bloody mess.

When Riley recovers from the shock of Max being arrested, she immediately asks Detective Buchanan to put a security detail on Brienne. That’s where her mind goes—to the welfare of others—because that’s the sort of person she is. The sort who’d break him from a psychiatric ward and set out—two days after being shot and stabbed—to clear his name.

And she kissed him.

Well, more accurately, she allowed herself to be kissed by him. But she’d made it clear those kisses were not unwelcome, and even if he knew it shouldn’t lead anywhere—really shouldn’t—what matters is that for those few moments, she
let him be something he never thought he could be again. A boy with a girl. A boy flirting with a girl, teasing a girl, kissing a girl and being kissed in return. A boy who fancies a girl being fancied in return.

Mmm, quite certain it goes beyond mere fancying, Maximus. You are indeed mad about the girl
.

Doesn’t matter. Doesn’t matter one bit.

So when this is over, you’ll be fine with a handshake and a fare-thee-well?

No, but I’m hoping we can be friends.

He swears he hears the voice laughing, but he silences it. It doesn’t matter if this relationship goes nowhere—
all right, it does, but he’ll survive
—what matters is that it happened at all. That Riley knows what he is, understands it as best she can, which is to say that while she can’t
fully
comprehend the situation, she’s done her best to try, and that means even more than the kisses. She didn’t run in the other direction. Nor did she try to make him into some misunderstood and broken hero in need of a damsel to tell him he was perfect and wonderful and to hell with what the world said. Riley got it, eyes wide open, and she still let him kiss her. Still smiled for him. Still looked out for him. Still worried about him.

The detectives had parked in the driveway of a seemingly empty house for sale. They’re keeping this arrest low-key, which Max appreciates, as he appreciates the fact that Buchanan waited until they were at the car—out of sight of anyone—before bringing out the handcuffs.

They’re in the car now. Buchanan is saying that someone spotted them from the papers and called it in, but Max isn’t paying much attention. It doesn’t matter how they got there—they have him now and all that’s important is that Riley won’t get in trouble for leaving the hospital with him. He’s saying nothing about that yet, because if he tells the
detective this is his fault, she’ll jump in with the truth, and he doesn’t want that. He’ll take the blame when she’s not there to seize it for herself.

Buchanan is in the passenger seat, on the radio, calling the hospital about Brienne. He doesn’t seem convinced she’s in danger, but he’s not taking any chances.

Max’s hands are cuffed in front of him and he’s resting his fingertips against Riley’s leg. He would talk to her, reassure her, but she’s intent on what Buchanan’s saying, so he limits his reassurance to that touch, and when he shifts, she absently reaches over and squeezes his hand, and that feels … it feels like the first time he held a girl’s hand—when he reached out and braced himself, ready to pretend he’d only accidentally brushed hers, but she’d taken his and it was like winning top place in class and scoring the winning goal all in one. Only this, this is better, because that had been some girl whose name he can’t even remember, just a girl he’d somewhat fancied, at an age when the girls began fancying the boys and the boys weren’t quite ready but felt as if they ought to. That was just a girl. Riley is not just a girl. She is …

Tell me again how you’re going to walk away, Max
.

We’ll still be
—

Friends. Ah, yes, of course. And that’ll be enough
.

It has to be, because he doesn’t get the rest. Not anymore. Can’t ask for that, can’t expect that, might never have that again, because the risk is too great, and if he cares about someone, then he cannot allow that—

He cuts himself off, his breath coming so fast that Riley looks over sharply, alarmed. He forces a smile and squeezes her knee. She doesn’t buy it, leaning in to whisper, “Are you okay?”

“Right as rain.”

That makes her roll her eyes and makes her smile too.

It isn’t just about him. He shouldn’t hope for more with
Riley, because she’s dealing with her own problems, and what she needs—what they both need—is a friend.

The car moves and they both jump, looking over their shoulders to see the trunk open. It shuts and Wheeler walks to the driver’s side and gets in without a word.

“All set?” Buchanan asks.

Wheeler only grunts.

“You’re the chatty one, aren’t you?” Max says, and he’s being perfectly friendly, but Wheeler fixes him with a look, and Riley tenses and he knows she’s thinking he shouldn’t have said anything, so he smiles and says, “All right, then. Take me to your leader. Or your station, as the case may be.”

“You don’t seem terribly concerned, Max,” Buchanan says as Wheeler backs out the car. “I’ve heard that’s a symptom, though.”

“Inappropriate affect,” Max says. “It is indeed a symptom. However, it’s not an explanation. Not today.” He smiles. “Today I’m just relieved. We have our answers, and I’m quite certain this whole mess can be cleared up by teatime.”

“Huh. Isn’t that another symptom? Delusions?”

Riley’s lips tighten, and he knows she wants to tell them to grow up and act like professionals, and when she says, “I don’t believe sarcasm is in order, Detective,” Max smiles, not only at the comeback but at the way he predicted it.

Because he knows her. And she knows him.

And oh how happy you will be, fa-la-la-la-la
.

Bugger off.

There’s no rancor in the curse. He smiles when he says it, if only in his head, and that silences the voice.

“We know what happened that night,” Riley says. “We figured it out.”

“Did you now? What did you figure out?”

“It was hit men.”

The two detectives look at each other … and burst out laughing.

“It
was
,” she says. “The Porters were killed by hit men hired by Mr. Porter’s business partner. They set up the therapy camp to kill me, because I was the witness.”

“That’s kind of overcomplicating things, isn’t it?”

“There’s more to it than that. They planned another hit in the same place: Aaron Highgate. They set it up through Aimee, who was dating one of them. I’ll tell you the whole story at the station. River Ruskin can back us up.”

“How much did you pay him for that?” Buchanan asks.

Temper sparks behind her eyes. Max squeezes her leg, telling her not to worry, these are just two idiots who don’t have the power to put him in jail for more than a day or two. He knows how this works. He’ll explain everything to his lawyer, who will talk to the Crown attorney—or whatever it’s called in America. It’s the Crown that lays charges, not the detectives. This is just a frustrating obstacle.

He leans in and tells her as much, and she nods, knowing he’s right.

“What poison is he whispering in your ear now, Riley?” Buchanan says.

“The truth,” she says.

“The truth is that your boyfriend is a psychotic killer who was obsessed with you and murdered six people because of it. But hey, now he’s got you, so it was all worthwhile, wasn’t it, Max?”

“I didn’t kill anyone,” he says. “Which we will prove, so save your breath—”

“Did you read the manifesto, Riley?”

She says, “I heard enough about it to know it’s fake, which computer forensics will confirm.”

“And the supporting evidence? The other documents we found?”

“What other documents?” Max asks, but Riley says, “Whatever they are, it’s the same thing. Forgeries.”

“Oh, really?” Buchanan twists to face Max. “Is that right, Max? Those suicide notes were fake? Because they sure looked real to me.”

Max imagines his mouth opening. He imagines words coming out. Words like
I don’t know what you’re talking about
. Only that doesn’t happen. He sits there, trying to unhinge his jaw. Trying to open his mouth. Trying to get words out. And he just sits there, unable to find breath, much less words.

“Suicide notes?” Riley says, and he struggles to decipher her tone. He studies her face, and he picks her words apart, sifting and sorting madly. Is that disbelief? Confusion? Shock and disgust?

Say something, Max. Open your bloody mouth and say something
.

Lie to her.

“Rough drafts,” Buchanan says. “Four of them, locked away under password protection—which, by the way, Max, is only going to keep your mother from seeing them.” He turns to Riley. “Your boyfriend started four suicide notes in the past month, saying how he couldn’t go on, and all the usual teen-angst bullshit.”

“
Teen angst
?” Max says, and that’s when the words come, not when he wants them, not the ones he wants, but this—two words on a bubble of rage—and once they’re out, the rest come, even as that voice inside screams for him to shut up, just shut the hell up.

“I spent my whole life being told how much promise I had, how much potential, how bloody brilliant I was, how bloody talented I was and how I could make anything of my life. And now?
Now
? Now the most I can hope for is that I don’t end up wandering the streets, yelling at strangers and
ranting about the end of the world. Forget university. Forget a decent career. Forget a wife and kids and a house in the country and everything else that is the bare
minimum
of what I could have expected from my life before. I get a lifetime of
existing
and being a bloody success if I manage that without buggering it up. So yes, I wrote those letters, because that’s my plan B. It’s not plan A yet, but that’s no one’s business except my own.”

When he finishes, Buchanan slow-claps, and that’s the worst of it, the most humiliating and horrible of it. Max is straining against his seat belt, feeling as if he’s spewed the most secret and shameful part of his life … and Buchanan slow-claps. Then Wheeler turns from the steering wheel and smirks at him, and that smirk … that smirk …

For a split second, Max tumbles down the rabbit hole. He sees that smirk and it’s not even the smirk—it’s Wheeler’s eyes. He sees something in his eyes and images flash—other eyes, other smirks, hidden behind a mask, but knowing they’re there. The images come fast and hard. A laugh. A chuckle. A sarcastic word. A sneer. Then gunfire and blood and—

“Are you done, Max?”

Max stares at Wheeler, but the man is facing forward again, driving. He looks over at Buchanan.

“Hello,” Buchanan says. “Are you stepping off your soapbox, boy?”

Max blinks.

He’s losing it. Something’s wrong. The meds—

No, the meds are fine. This is what we call stress, Maximus
.

Which is one of the problems with medication. It’s not an impenetrable shield. The madness can still creep through. He can still snap if the pressure is too much. This is what’s never going to change, never ever going to change, and—

Really think you ought to consider the man’s advice and get off that soapbox, old chap
.

Sod off and—

Riley
.

That’s all it takes. One word and Max’s head snaps up, whiplash-fast. He jolts back in his seat as the air thins.

Riley.

He’s just confessed to contemplating suicide, and she’s sitting right there. She risked everything to save him from that warehouse, to save him from prison, and he admitted he’s thinking of ending his life.