The Masked Truth (9 page)

Dying alone.

Like the Porters.

No, the Porters didn’t die alone. They perished together, watching their life partner die with them, both thinking of their child, their only child, in the house with killers, perhaps about to follow them into death and they wouldn’t live long enough to know if she survived or shared a cold grave with them.

Little Miss Sunshine …

I think it’s that internal sarcasm that actually keeps me going, keeps me from thinking of the Porters and Maria and Lorenzo and bottoming out right there in the hall. Wallow in the horror of their fates and then slap myself out of it with self-mockery. Whatever gets you through the night. Or through the semi-dark halls with armed killers lurking around the corner.

We turn down another hall when someone coughs up ahead.

It’s not just a cough. It’s … it’s an awful gurgling, sputtering, wet sound. Max’s fingers grip my shoulder. When I look back, he doesn’t say anything, just keeps staring forward at that sound. Even as he glances at me, our eyes meeting, there’s only a silent
Did you hear that?
Which obviously I did—the halls are quiet enough that I swear even the swish of our stockinged feet must echo.

I nod, and he looks … relieved? I suppose I’m not the only one who’s jumpy, wondering if I’m imagining that creak down a hall or that whisper behind us. Just because Max is a guy—and a smart-ass—doesn’t mean this situation doesn’t scare the shit out of him.

I start toward the noise, and he grabs my shoulder again, harder this time, nearly flipping me backward as I stop. When I turn, he gives me a
What the hell?
look and pantomimes that the noise came from exactly where I’m heading. I nod, remove his hand and continue on. After an exasperated sigh, he comes after me, whispering, “We need to go back the
other
way, Riley.
Away
from the men with pistols.”

I motion for him to stay where he is while I investigate. That gets me a look that’s a borderline glower. I ignore him and keep going until I’m at the corner. I peer around it to see … blood. A snail’s trail of it down the hall and through a cracked-open door. I hear breathing from inside that room.

No, it’s not breathing, no more than the other sound was coughing. This is the wheezing of a life-or-death struggle for breath.

Is it Maria? She was shot in the chest. Maybe she’d only passed out and then came to after everyone was gone, presuming her dead, and she crawled in here. I pick up the pace, but Max plucks at my sleeve, and I spin on him with a glare, which he returns as he mouths,
Trap
.

Seriously? I
mouth back, and jab a finger at the trail of blood. His mouth sets in a firm line, and I realize he has a point. Cantina was shot too. This could be him, lying in wait with a gun. Or the other two could have staged the blood and be inside, faking the labored breathing.

I motion that I’ll be careful and creep forward, one ear on that door, the other on our surroundings. I can hear footsteps, but they’re multiple halls away.

I inch to the partly open door and peer in to see only darkness. In that darkness, though, I hear rasping breaths, and the hairs on my neck stand on end, every horror movie rushing back. I’m leaning when Max shoulders me aside, his glowing watch in his hand now. I take it from him and shoulder
him
aside. He mock bows, granting me the honors. I ease the glowing watch to the door crack.

Lorenzo lies on the floor, his shirt soaked with blood, his face pale. He lifts his head, but his eyes won’t focus. One hand is clapped over his wound. Every breath sounds like a death rattle.

I open the door.

“Brienne,” he says. Then he blinks hard. “No, Riley.” And I know he’s far gone—even in the partial darkness there’s no mistaking me for blond little Brienne, and behind me Max mutters, “Bloody hell,” as if knowing what it means.

“We need a mobile—a cell phone,” Max whispers as he
brushes past me into the room. He crouches beside Lorenzo. “Did you confiscate any?”

I stare at him, crouched in a dying man’s blood, his final words:
Hey, can you tell us where to find a cell phone?

That’s not actually what he said. His voice is low, soft even, his wording polite, his tone apologetic. Yet all I can see is a dying man and my brain screams that we need to do something, do anything, to save him.

And how exactly would I do that? Sloane was the lifeguard. She’d studied CPR. I didn’t like the water, one of those “childhood incident” things that never quite goes away. Last year, I’d signed up for a first-aid course with Shannon, back when we were still friends, but we’d skipped out to sneak into a summer concert.

I still remember giggling about that.
Hey, look at me, being all rebellious
. I remember, too, covering protests in Egypt for the school paper, and talking on Skype to someone who’d been there, and thinking
that
was real rebellion, honest rebellion, and me? I skipped a first-aid course once to go to a concert.

How many times have I thought of that missed course? Starting with kneeling beside the Porters’ bodies. Now, seeing Lorenzo, the floor opens up and I’m back there, beside their bodies, thinking,
You idiot, you stupid little idiot, why didn’t you take the course, and it doesn’t matter if they’re dead, if you have no doubt they’re dead, what would you do if they weren’t, and you couldn’t help them because of that goddamn concert and
—

“Riley?”

That isn’t Max or Lorenzo speaking. I’m not in the warehouse anymore. I’m crouching beside the bodies of two people I saw alive only moments before and there’s a voice on the steps, calling, “Riley?” and I jump up, ready to shout,
No! Stay there, Darla!
but I’m not certain the killers are far
enough away that they won’t hear me, so I rush toward the stairs and I grip the railing and my hand slips because it’s covered in blood. Their blood. Her parents’ blood. And she’s coming down the steps, close enough for me to hear her breathing, and I go to wipe my hands on my jeans, but that won’t help and—

“Riley?”

Another voice, this one jerking me back. Fingers on my elbow. The fog clears and I see dark blue eyes, and I think,
Who has those eyes?
and I have no idea until the face comes into focus, and even then the first thing I see is freckles over a nose and a faint scar underscoring a cheekbone, and I don’t recognize those either until I see the rest of the face—the arched nose, the too-sharp chin, the blond hair plastered by sweat to the side of his face.

Max.

Of course it’s Max, but there’s a surreal moment where I doubt myself, because I’ve been running for my life with the guy and I never noticed the color of his eyes or his freckles or his scar. I didn’t get too close. Didn’t look too hard. That’s my life these days. I spent almost three hours with a group of kids—first in therapy and then as captives—and I couldn’t tell you any of their eye colors. I just didn’t care enough to notice.

“Riley?” Max says.

“Turn toward the wall.” That’s Lorenzo, rasping, his words barely more than breath. I glance down at him and he says, “It’s the blood. Look away, Riley, and focus on something else.” A pained chuckle. “Think about all the more exciting things you could have been doing this weekend.”

I swallow, and I move toward him.

He shakes his head, grimacing with the effort. “Turn away. It’ll be easier if—”

“I don’t want it to be easier.”
It shouldn’t be easier. You’re dying, and you’re telling me to look away because
it’s triggering
my
trauma
. I skirt the blood and crouch by his head. “Is there anything we can do?”

“Survive.”

I glance at Max, and he’s breathing shallowly through his mouth, and maybe it’s the smell of the blood, but I think he’s struggling to keep calm, to not think about the fact a man is dying in front of us and there’s not a damn thing we can do.

“I-I don’t know first aid,” I say.

A weak smile. “I believe I’m a little beyond that, Riley.” He reaches to take my hand and then sees his is covered in blood, and he stops, and I teeter on the edge of that memory, of myself looking at the blood on my hands, and I squeeze my eyes shut before I topple back into it.

“We can get a mobile,” Max says, his voice low. “Call for help. That’s what we can do. I know they took yours and Aimee’s, but are there any others?”

“Two kids brought theirs. They’re with …” Lorenzo trails off as shoes squeak in the hall.

I dart to the door, left cracked open for that little extra light, and I start to ease it shut. Then I hear someone struggling to catch his breath and keep quiet. I peek out. It’s Aimee.

I open the door, and she wheels and spots me. Her mouth forms a perfect O. Then her gaze drops to the blood on the floor. She sprints over, shoes squeaking again, and I wince, but I don’t hear anyone else.

I usher her inside. She sees Lorenzo and stops with a yelp. I resist the urge to clap my hand to her mouth and instead motion frantically for her to keep her voice down.

“They need …” Lorenzo struggles, as if he used up his energy talking to us. “Cell phone. You have …”

“You have the mobiles,” Max says to Aimee. “Is that right? The ones you confiscated?”

She’s staring dumbly at Lorenzo. I have to take her arm and squeeze, and even then her gaze barely flicks my way.

“Unless you’re a doctor,” I say, “the best thing we can do for him is get those cell phones. Lorenzo said two kids brought theirs.”

A slow nod. “Aaron tried to smuggle his in, but I found it while his driver was still there, and I gave it back. Maria brought hers by accident. It’s with the meds.”

“Brilliant,”
Max says. “Now where are the meds?”

Aimee looks at Lorenzo. “You had them.”

“Right,” he says slowly. “But I gave them to you. You’re in charge of everything the kids brought, including the meds and that cell phone.”

She blinks hard. “Yes. Of course. Sorry.”

“Aimee …” Lorenzo says when she stops. “Take Max and Riley to the cell phone. They can handle it from there.”

His lips quirk, as if there’s irony in that: the messed-up therapy kids taking charge.

“I’ve been through something like this,” I say. “I’m inoculated.”

Max laughs at that, a snort that he cuts short. Lorenzo allows himself a chuckle, as if not quite willing to go as far as admitting it’s funny. From Aimee’s expression, she thinks I’ve lost it, like I’m on that brink of running screaming down the hall. Which is probably true, but I latch on to Max’s laugh. It relaxes me, as does the grin he shoots as a follow-up.

“All right, then,” Max says. “Let’s get on with it.” He cranks up his accent another notch. “Tallyho, and all that.”

“What does that even mean?” I say. “Tallyho?”

“No idea,” he whispers as he walks past, and I laugh then, a small one, choked back.

Before I leave, I bend at Lorenzo’s side and reach for his bloodied hand, and when he resists, I take it anyway, and I squeeze it, and say, “Hang in there,” and he says, “Whatever that means,” and we exchange a real smile before I go.

Gray and Predator are stalking us. We can hear them as we creep along the hall.

I ask about the other kids as soon as we’re in the corridor. Aimee confirms that Brienne and Aaron escaped the therapy room.

“Together?” I ask.

“I … I don’t know. It all happened so fast. I was trying to help Gideon.”

“Gideon? What happened?”

“He was shot. Right as you two escaped. I stayed with him, and he was still alive, along with the guy he shot. Then they—the kidnappers—went after Aaron, and I ran for help, and maybe I should have stayed with Gideon, but he was so far gone …”

“And Maria?” I ask.

She shakes her head, and my gut clenches and I want to say,
Are you sure? Really sure?
But her expression leaves no doubt, and I turn away, hiding my grief as we continue walking.

There’s silence until we’re around the next corner. Then she says, “I keep telling myself this isn’t happening. That I’m hallucinating or delusional. That I’ve lost my mind and—” She stops short and her gaze swings to Max, who stiffens,
his lips pressing together in a hard line. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“We aren’t in therapy right now, Aimee,” he says. “No one’s concerned with word choices. But we should probably be quiet. We can talk it all out later.”

“Which way, then?” I say. “Where are the meds?”

“Back in the therapy room.”

“Bloody hell,” Max says, exhaling a hiss through his teeth. “Could you have mentioned that?”

“I … I’m having trouble focusing.”

“Are you sure that’s where the phone is too?” I ask. “We don’t want to risk going back to the therapy room if we don’t have to. Not if that other guy is still alive and can raise the alarm.”

“I … I think Maria’s phone is upstairs, actually. With my things. Unless …” She straightens. “It’s either in the therapy room or upstairs. I’m sure of that.”

I resist the urge to echo Max’s
bloody hell
.

“But the mobiles they took from you and Lorenzo should be in the therapy room,” Max says. “With the meds.”

Aimee’s eyes go round. “Right, you need your—”

“Meds.” He looks at me. “For my condition. Heart thing.”

I look over sharply. “What?”

“Don’t worry,” he says. “I’m not going to keel over on you. I should just have them. In case.”

“You definitely need—” Aimee begins, but he cuts her off with a look, obviously not wanting her to make a big deal of it. Which means it is a big deal. He needs his medication, almost as much as we need a phone.

“We’ll go back to the therapy room, then,” I say. “We’ll figure something out once we’re there.”

We’ve been whispering as we move, our ears attuned to the sound of footsteps. Or mine and Max’s are—I can tell by the way he keeps tilting his head, his gaze shifting,
tracking distant noises. I don’t think Aimee’s paying attention at all. Which makes me realize, yet again, how lucky I am to have Max. Now if we just survive long enough for me to tell him that.

He’s in the lead, and we’re halfway down the hall when his arm shoots out. He’s heard something. I do too, after he stops—a door closing down the next hall. Again he checks to see if I heard, but he’s a little slower this time, as if starting to trust himself. I nod and take a step backward, bumping into Aimee, who doesn’t move.