The Masked Truth (25 page)

Her gaze drops. “Yes, of course. I’m sorry, Max. I didn’t mean—”

“You’re just watching out for me. I know.” Another one-armed hug, and this time she accepts it. He even smacks a kiss on her cheek before saying, “I’ll only be a moment.” Then he starts loping off.

He gets exactly three steps before a voice says, “Maximus Cross?” and he turns to see two plainclothes police officers bearing down on him.

“We need to speak to you.”

I’m not dead. That’s my second thought on waking. Yes, it should probably be my first, but there was that groggy moment when I opened my eyes and saw white and heard murmuring voices and the exact state of my existence wasn’t obvious. Then one of the voices came clear—Sloane’s—and that answered the question.

Did I really think I died in that alley? Yes. I don’t know how close I actually came to it, but in that moment, lying there, I’d been certain that’s what was happening, and equally certain there was nothing I could do to stop it.

I always expected that when the end came, I’d fight like hell. I had, up to that point, but then I’d crossed over it and the inevitable seemed, well, inevitable. Like seeing a meteor falling and you’re running as fast as you can until the shadow covers you and you look up and realize it’s too big to outrun. In that moment—that final moment—all I’d cared about was that I wasn’t alone. That someone
else
cared enough to stay at my side. And so, when I wake, there’s one name on my lips.

“Max?” I whisper, lifting my head.

He’s not there. Nor does anyone immediately rush to my bedside, as they do in the movies. That’s because no one happens to be looking my way. Mom’s talking to the doctor
with her back to me. Sloane is at the window, looking out. They don’t hear my scratchy whisper.

I slump back onto the bed, and that’s when Mom turns, and she sees my eyes open and gives a little chirp of an “Oh!” as she rushes over, and that’s when I get my cinematic moment, family clustered at my bedside, telling me how glad they are that I’m awake, how I’ve been through so much but I’m fine now, crying happy tears.

Okay, Mom does all that. Sloane stands at my bedside and says, “Thank God you’re awake. You were starting to smell.” And Mom says, “Sloane!” and I wait for my sister’s usual “What?” but instead she smiles at me and leans over to kiss my forehead and whispers, “Good to see you back. But you
do
smell.”

“Thanks.” I shift and I brace for pain, but nothing comes. Good meds, I guess. “How long have I been out?”

“It’s Sunday,” Sloane says. “Which means you’re twenty-four hours overdue for a shower.”

“I’ll get right on that,” I say. “How much longer do I need to be here?”

The doctor starts explaining my injuries. After the first line I lift my hand. “Not to be rude, but can I just get an estimated time of departure?”

“We’d like to keep you for a few days,” she says. “There’s always the risk of infection, and you’ve been through a trauma—”

“Got it,” I say, and I really
don’t
mean to be rude, but there are more important things on my mind. “How’s Max?”

When silence answers, I boost myself up. “Max? The guy I came in with? He was with me, right?”

“He was,” Mom says in a very careful tone, one that starts my heart pounding.

“Is he okay? Did something happen? He was fine when I passed out.”

“He said to tell you he’s right as rain,” Sloane says.

I have to smile at that. I exhale and lean back into the pillow. “Okay, good.” One second of rest, and then I’m up again. “What about Lorenzo? He was one of the counselors.”

“He didn’t make it, baby,” Mom says. “But the girl did.”

“Girl?”

“Brienne, I think her name is?”

“Brienne?” I shoot up fast enough that I
do
feel pain stabbing through me. “She’s alive?”

“In critical condition and unconscious, but stable.” Mom looks at the doctor. “Is that right? She’s stable?”

The doctor nods and then says, “I should alert Detective Buchanan that Riley is awake.”

“Right,” I say. “The whole kidnapping thing probably needs a statement, huh?” I smile. No one else does. Not a laughing matter, and they’re right. I think of Aaron and Aimee and Lorenzo, of Maria and Gideon and Sandy, and my smile disappears as I slide back down in the bed. The doctor leaves.

Mom comes over and holds my hand. “It’s all right, baby. We’ll get this sorted out.”

Sorted out
. An odd way to put it. I’m quiet for a minute. Then I look over at her. “I’d like to see Max.”

When she doesn’t answer, I say, “Duh, right. If I’ve been unconscious since Friday, he’s long since gone home.”

“Actually—” Sloane begins, but Mom cuts her off with a look.

I continue, “I know the police will want to get my statement before I see him, but I’d like to speak to him after, if that’s possible. I don’t know if he left a number or some way to get in touch—”

“We need to talk about him,” Mom says, and her grip on my hand tightens.

“About Max?” I catch her expression, the wariness there. “Did he say something? He can be a bit of a smart-ass. If he made some comment—”

“It’s not that.”

“He’s okay, though, right?” I push up again.

“Depends on your definition of okay,” Sloane mutters.

“Wh-what?”

“You do know he’s crazy, right?”

“Sloane!” Mom says.

“What? It’s true.”

“Sloane? Could you please step outside?”

My sister slouches into a chair instead.

“Mom?” I say. “What’s going on?”

“I’m not sure how much you know about this Max boy, Riley. About why he was in therapy.”

“He never said. There seemed to be, well, maybe some kind of abuse? I could be wrong.”

“Yep, you are,” Sloane murmurs, too low for Mom to call her on it.

“I know he’s on medication,” I say. “For a heart condition.”

“Not a heart condition,” Sloane says, and when Mom turns on her, she says, “Just spit it out, Mom. Before she totally freaks.”

“He has schizophrenia,” Mom says.

“Now you can freak,” Sloane says to me.

I barely hear her. I’m thinking of what Mom just said.

“Schizo …” I’m trying to remember everything I know about that. It’s not much. “That isn’t multiple personality, is it? I know ‘schism’ means split. But that’s not it.”

“It means he’s crazy,” my sister says.

“Sloane!” Mom says.

“What? The doctor said it means he hallucinates, hears voices, can’t think straight, is prone to violence, and can’t tell what’s real and what’s not. Classic definition of crazy.”

“Sloane?” Now it’s me saying it. “Can you step outside? Please?”

She looks honestly taken aback at that. Maybe even hurt.

“I’d like to speak to Mom,” I say. “Max saved my life, and I need to have a serious conversation about this without listening to you insult him.”

“I’m not trying to insult him,” she says. “I’m just telling you what the doctor says. Maybe ‘crazy’ isn’t the right word to use—”

“Would you use it for me?”

“Of course not. But you’re just having problems. He’s been diagnosed with a serious mental disorder.”

“Then call it that. Please. Because PTSD
is
a mental disorder, not a ‘problem,’ and I’d rather not worry about my sister calling me crazy.”

“I’m sorry,” she says, and looks as if she means it. “I’d never call you that. But what they’re saying about him …”

I brace myself. “What are they saying?”

“There’s some confusion, baby,” Mom says. “About exactly what happened.”

“They say he did it,” Sloane blurts.

“What?” I say.

Mom tries to hush her, to take some gentle and roundabout path to the answer, but I don’t want gentle or roundabout.

“They’re saying he did what?” I ask Sloane.

“All of it,” she says. “Killed those kids. Shot you. Stabbed you.”

I bolt upright so fast the pain leaves me gasping. “What? No. Just
no
. That’s—” I take a deep breath.

Speaking of crazy.

No, really, this
is
crazy.

Am I awake? I can’t be. Because this is absolutely nuts. How could they even think—

I can’t panic. I need to focus on facts. It’s just some confusion, and I can clear it up if I calm down.

“At least one of the kidnappers was killed,” I say. “Maybe two. There’s a body. Proof.”

Mom shakes her head. “No, there’s isn’t, baby.”

“What?”

“All they found were those poor kids and the two counselors.”

“And the gun,” Sloane murmurs. “They found Max with the gun.”

“A kidnapper’s gun. Which we took. If it was his, how the hell would he have gotten it in? There was a metal detector—” I shake my head sharply. “No, I’m not even dignifying this with discussion. I was
there
, Mom. What are they saying, that I had a breakdown? Hallucinated three kidnappers and a night of hell?”

“They say you’re confused,” she says softly.

“What?
Confused
? They honestly
are
claiming I imagined the whole thing? That’s … That’s …” I can’t even finish.

“They say he’s very persuasive. Schizophrenia often results in social issues—withdrawal and isolation—but every case is different, and this boy is very intelligent, very charming. He had a psychotic break and convinced you there were kidnappers in the building.”

“And I then had my own hallucinations? Because I
saw
them, Mom.
Talked
to them. Watched them kill …” I swallow and she reaches for me, but I pull back. “I was
there
. Max didn’t need to convince me of anything.”

“They say the repeated trauma may have resulted in a derealization. That means—”

“I know what ‘derealization’ means,” I snap, and maybe she doesn’t deserve that, but there have been times I felt as if my mom doesn’t quite get me. Never like this, though. Never like this.

“Derealization is an extreme symptom of PTSD,” I say. “Where reality seems unreal. Last night certainly did seem unreal, but derealization would not cause me to completely misremember what happened.”

“The doctor also suggested a possible fugue state.”

“Which is basically amnesia. In other words, they’re suggesting I experienced a fugue state due to the trauma and then allowed Max to fill in the blanks. That would mean I’m lying right now. That I don’t actually remember what happened—only what Max told me—and now I’m pretending I do remember it.”

“Of course not, baby. You’re just confused.”

“The word is ‘lying,’ Mom. Outright lying to protect Max. Why? Oh, wait. Let me guess. Because he’s cute.”

“Mmm,” Sloane murmurs, her first interjection since Mom started. “He’s a seven. That’s not cute enough to lie for.”

I glare at her. “No boy is cute enough to lie for.”

“Depends on the lie, but yeah, not for something like that. And definitely not for a seven.” When my glare sharpens, she says, “What? I’m agreeing with you.”

“No one is saying you’d lie for him because he’s cute, Riley,” Mom says. “If they did, I’d set them straight. I think they’re implying that you’re honestly confused, and you believe that you saw—”

“What I
saw
,” I say. “There’s no
believe
. A man shot me as I was running away with Brienne. Max wasn’t even there. He
was
there when the
other
guy stabbed me—Max was pulling him off before he
killed
me. That is the only violent thing Max did, and it was to protect me. It was hell in there, and whatever is wrong with Max, he kept it under control. He
avoided
violence, and that’s why I thought maybe there was abuse in his past. Now I realize he was avoiding it because he knows he might be prone to it, as
part of his diagnosis. He kept it under control in every way, and I owe him my life.”

It’s a good speech. An impassioned defense. When I finish, I expect Mom to hug me and tell me that she believes me and we’ll sort this out. That it’s a mistake, and it’ll be fixed, and we’ll do it together. But she only stands there, shredding a tissue between her fingers.

“It may have
seemed
as if he saved you, baby—” she begins.

“Go.”

“Riley, I know this is tough—”

“Go!” I snarl the word and she falls back. “Get out of here. Now. Or I’m going to scream, and then we’ll see who they think is the crazy one. Maybe
that’s
the answer. Maybe I did it. Huh? Have they considered that? Makes more sense, doesn’t it? That can happen with PTSD. You lose it and go nuts, and poor Max, well, he hallucinates, so it was easy for me to convince him there were kidnappers.”

“Riley, don’t. You’re—”

“Count of ten, Mom. If you’re still in here, I’m screaming until someone comes and then I’m confessing. Ten … nine …”

She leaves when I get to six.

I’m so furious I can barely form words when the nurse stops by. I manage to tell her that I want to speak to the police—now. When she returns a few minutes later to say they’re on the way, I’m already on my laptop, researching schizophrenia so they can’t bullshit me.

Max has schizophrenia.

My initial reaction had been confusion, as I struggled to remember what it was. Once I did, I thought only,
That fits
. Overly worried about getting his meds, avoiding violent confrontations and, of course, the part where he’d warned me he sometimes got confused, imagined things that weren’t there.

Yet after I look it up and it really hits … I’m kind of angry and a little bit hurt. No, I
am
angry and I
am
hurt, and I cannot deny it.

I sit on my bed and stare at the wall, and I want to pull up the covers and roll over and shut the world out, because after four months of sleepwalking through my life, the one guy who made me feel something—really made me feel something, brought me back to myself and made me care—he lied to me. Told me he needed meds for a heart condition. Went through hell with me and never mentioned that he was
suffering from a serious—yes, a
very
serious—mental illness. And it wasn’t like hiding an eating disorder, where it was none of my business under the circumstances. This one mattered.