The Masked Truth (3 page)

“The therapy room is over here,” I say, pointing.

“O-okay,” she says. “I’ll … I’ll see you in there.”

Again, I want to just say
whatever
and continue on. Again, there’s still enough of the old me—the girl who used
to serve on the student council, unofficial chick-in-charge-of-organizing-stuff—that I can’t turn my back on her, no more than I could a freshman who looks ready to bolt on her first day.

“If you don’t mind walking in with me, I’d appreciate that,” I say as I head over. “I hate that part.” I stop in front of her. “I’m Riley.”

“Sandy,” she says.

“My roommate? Even better. Please tell me you know more about these weekend things than I do.”

A weak smile. “No, sorry. I’m a total therapy noob. I …” Her gaze darts to her hand, and I see her sleeve riding up just enough to show bandages around her wrist. She quickly yanks her sleeve over them.

“S-sorry,” she says. “It’s not— It’s not as bad as it looks. I wasn’t really … wasn’t really trying to …” She sucks in breath. “Just a stupid thing. A boy and … stupid. But my parents are freaked out so I said I’d go to therapy, and we heard about this weekend, and I thought it would make them feel better if I volunteered, you know? Prove I regret it and …” She looks up, her eyes widening. “Oh my God, I’m babbling. I can’t believe I just said all that.”

I smile for her. “It’s practice for the sessions. And you did very well.” I look toward the therapy room, where I can hear Aaron’s loud voice and then Max with some sarcastic rejoinder. “We can go in there with the guys or we can poke around out here.”

“I’d rather poke around. He sounds like a jerk.”

“Which one?”

She smiles, and we head off down the hall.

Worst thing about group therapy? The introductions.

Hi, I’m Riley, and I … have a problem
.

Yeah, we all do. That’s why we’re here.

Hi, I’m Riley, and I … need help
.

Um, well, then you’re in the right place.

Hi, I’m Riley, and I’ve been diagnosed with situationally related anxiety and depression leading to post-traumatic stress disorder
.

Say what?

Hi, I’m Riley, and I was in the house while the couple I was babysitting for were murdered
.

Oh, you poor thing.

Hi, I’m Riley, and I was under the bed while the couple I was babysitting for were murdered downstairs
.

Oh, you poor … Wait, you were under the bed?

No one ever says the last one. But I hear it. Over and over. Some days, it’s all I hear.

Now I’m in the therapy semicircle again. Sandy sits to my right, wearing a cardigan, sleeves pulled down over her hands. Max is in the back, as usual. Aimee sits off to the side, letting the second therapist—a balding guy named Lorenzo—lead the group. The boy on the end was supposed
to talk first, but he wouldn’t. The girl on my left went instead. Brienne. As tiny as Sloane but blond, Brienne looks like a cheerleader. She’s here for “emotional stuff.” That’s all she says for now, which is fine. No one will push. Yet.

I’m up next.

“I’m Riley Vasquez, and I …” I trail off, searching for the right words as my stomach clenches.

“Oh!” Brienne grins at me like she’s about to shake her pompoms and ask for an M. “You were in the papers. You saved that little girl.”

As I shrink into my chair, she notices my reaction and hurries on, “And you’re the city girls’ fencing champ. That’s why I remembered the article. I thought the fencing thing was cool.”

I manage a weak smile for her. “Thanks.”

Aaron wrinkles his nose. “If you’re the girl who saved that kid, what are you doing in therapy? Is the pressure of being a hero too much to bear?”

I flinch.

Brienne moves forward, like a tiny attack dog straining at its leash. “She saw two people die.”

“No,” Aaron says. “If I remember the story, she never actually witnessed—”

“Oh, for God’s sake. She was there when two people
died
. She could have been killed herself.”

“The point is,” I cut in, “that I’m working through some things—”

“Like what?” Aaron says. “Did you even
see
them after they’d been shot?”

My annoyance from earlier flares. “No, I just presumed they were dead and called 911 without actually checking on them. Of course I saw them. I—”

“Take the tone down, please, Riley,” Lorenzo says.

“What?” Brienne says. “This jerk gets to say whatever he wants, and you give Riley crap for defending herself? And if you dare tell me he’s just needling her because she’s cute, I swear I’ll hit you. Then we’ll have to spend the rest of this session talking about my anger issues, and nobody wants that.”

“No, Brienne,” Lorenzo says evenly. “I wasn’t letting Aaron get away with that. I was about to add that we don’t challenge anyone on their right to be here. Now, Aaron, you’re next. Introduce yourself, please.”

“Fine. I’m Aaron Highgate, and I’m here by mistake.”

Brienne mutters under her breath. He glowers at her.

“Well, I am. I don’t have a problem; my father has one.
With
me. That’s why I’m here. I crashed my Rover, and if I don’t do this weekend therapy shit, I won’t get a new one.”

“Tragic.”

“Brienne, please. Aaron, continue.”

“My dad thinks I have narcissistic personality disorder. He even bribed some shrink to agree. I’m a narcissist? He’s the one screwing everything in a skirt. Mom’s finally divorcing him, and she’s going to take him to the cleaners. Like she should.”

“All right,” Lorenzo says slowly. “But why would he send you here?”

Aaron looks at Lorenzo like he’s an idiot. “Um, because he hates me. Because he hates that I’m siding with Mom. Because if he can prove I’m sick and she can’t handle it, then he can get custody and save a shitload of money on support …”

Aaron continues. While I’m not sure he has an actual disorder, there’s obviously some narcissism going on there. First he doesn’t want to talk about his problems. Then
all
he wants to talk about are his problems.

After about ten minutes, when he pauses for breath, I say, “I need to use the restroom.”

“I think you can wait, Riley,” Lorenzo says.

Aimee shakes her head. “That’s okay. Let her—”

“Let her take off while I’m talking?” Aaron says. “That’s rude.”

“No,” I say. “It’s part of my anxiety issue. I have a nervous bladder, and the longer I wait, the more—”

“Whoa, TMI,” Aaron says.

“You asked,” I reply, and take off before anyone can stop me.

I swear, the bathroom is a quarter mile away with all the twists and turns I have to take. I stay in there longer than I need to.

When I finally open the door, I’m not surprised to hear footsteps down the next hall. Someone’s come to fetch me. I’m torn between feeling guilty for hiding and wanting to snap, “Can I use the bathroom in peace?”

I won’t snap at whoever it is. I’ve done that enough tonight with Aaron, and I feel guiltier than I should. Story of my life these days. I remember when I was little, my dad read me a story about an obsequious mouse, quailing at every sharp word, running from every scary noise, stumbling over himself to apologize for everything. I hated that mouse. Now I am him.

“Looking for me?” I say as I turn the corner, heading toward the footsteps. “Sorry. I—”

An alien blocks my path. A gray-faced alien wearing a suit and gloves and holding a gun, and the thought that flashes through my mind is a memory from the month before Dad died, the two of us on the
Men in Black
ride at Universal, going through it over and over again, laughing as we competed to see who could shoot the most aliens.

The memory comes like a fist to my gut. It disappears just as fast, and I realize I’m staring at a guy wearing a gray
alien mask. Because that’s what it is, obviously. A latex mask of the aliens from the old
X-Files
show. The gun, though? The gun is real.

I turn to run. I do not even
think
of jumping him and grabbing his weapon. Four months of feeling like a coward hasn’t changed anything. I see a mask. I see a gun. I flee.

He grabs me by my hood. I twist and lash out, kicking and punching, and he whips me against the wall. My head hits hard enough for fireworks to explode behind my eyes. I still kick him when he gets within range and my fists aim for his gut. He wraps one hand around my throat and puts the gun at my temple. I keep struggling.

“Are you loco, girl?” he growls. “This isn’t a toy.”

I don’t care. I’ll do whatever it takes to get away because I know what happens if I don’t. I can still hear the gunshots. I can see the blood. I can feel Mrs. Porter’s skin cooling fast under my hands.

So I will fight and—

The gun clocks me in the temple. The same spot that struck the wall, and I black out just long enough that when I come to, I’m staring at that wall. He’s behind me, with a chokehold around my neck and the cold gun barrel pressed to the back of my head.

“Riley?” a distant voice calls, a singsong: “Riley, Riley, Ri-lee-a. Come out, come out wherever you are.”

Max’s boots tromp along the hall. The man pulls me toward a shadowy corner. He doesn’t yank me behind it, though. He leaves me standing there, exposed in the dim light, with a gun to my head and one arm wrenched behind my back.

My heart is pounding so hard I feel like I’m going to pass out. I’ll lose consciousness, and I’ll fall forward, and my captor will think I’m trying to escape, and he’ll shoot—

“Come out, come out,” Max calls. “Or don’t. Actually,
let’s go with that. Don’t come out. You’re hopelessly lost, having failed to adequately mark the trail with breadcrumbs. That way, we both have an excuse not to go back and listen to Mr. Highgate, who is, shockingly, still regaling his captive audience with all the problems he
doesn’t
have.”

Oh God, go away, Max. Please, please, please go away. You don’t deserve this. No one does. Just walk down another hall and let this guy take me and do whatever
—

A wave of lightheadedness washes over me.

And do whatever
.

Kill me.

He’s going to kill me.

I don’t care. Can’t care. Can’t escape. Just go, Max. Please, please
—

Max steps around the corner and sees me in the shadows, my expression hidden.

“Bloody hell,” he says. “You can’t play a proper game at all. Go hide, please, so I can spend the next hour seeking and—”

The man pushes me, and we both move into the light. Max stops. He stands there, frozen, like I was, except my shock lasted only a second or two. Max stares at us, and the look on his face … I’d say it’s terror, but not the kind you get from seeing someone holding a gun. It’s deeper than that. Raw and bone-chilling.

“It’s a mask, idiot,” the man says.

At least three seconds tick by. Then Max rubs his face, hard.

“Riley?” he says, uncertainty in his voice.

“Don’t move,” I say finally, my voice oddly steady, as if his terror swallows my own. “He’s got a gun to my head and—”

Max spits a curse, and I realize he hasn’t seen the gun. So what freaked him out? A guy in an alien mask?

Max breathes hard now, saying, “All right, all right.” Then, “It’s going to be fine, Riley. Just stay calm. It’ll be fine. I’ll—”

The man cuts him off with a snorted laugh. “Don’t even think of playing hero, kid. All you’ll do is get this girl killed. Which, by the way” —he lowers his voice to a mock whisper— “really doesn’t impress the ladies.”

“Don’t,” I say. “Please. Max doesn’t have anything to do with what happened. Let him go. It’s me you want.”

“Really? Is your daddy rich?”

Max snaps out of it, his sarcasm slingshotting back. “Her
daddy
is dead, you tosser. You’ve got the wrong girl.”

“Actually, we aren’t looking for a girl at all. We’re here for the son of Mr. Lewis Highgate, who
is
very rich indeed. As for this girlie, let’s hope her daddy left a nice insurance policy. One that will help his daughter buy her freedom.”

“F-freedom?” I say.

“I believe this is what you call a hostage situation. You two kiddies may not be the main prize, but you’ll make perfectly fine bonuses.” He prods me forward, gun still at my head. “Now, let’s go meet young Mr. Highgate, phone his daddy and get this party started.”

Our captor leads us back to the therapy room. If he speaks on the walk, I don’t hear it. I just keep staring at him, thinking,
This can’t be real
. Then I notice Max doing the same, an even more intense stare, his eyes like laser beams trying to cut through the mask. No, trying to incinerate it.

He blinks hard and seems surprised when he glances over to see the man still there. Surprised and dismayed. That’s all—dismayed. Not panic, and maybe that’s because he’s decided this is all an act or a prank, but in a weird way his calm keeps me from dropping on the floor, hands over my head, breaking down, sobbing, “Not again, not again, not again.”

I can hear voices from the therapy room, raised in anger and panic and fear. I don’t hear words, though. It’s as if there’s cotton stuffed in my ears, a weird kind of deadening inside my head.

When we reach the room, there are two other men in masks, one from the
Star Wars
cantina scene, the other from
Predator
. They have everyone against the wall, faces to it, hands over their heads.

“Well, well, I see you boys started the party without me. Let me add the two final guests, then. Against the wall,
kiddies. I’d tell you to assume the position, but I think you can figure that out.”

I try to walk over to Sandy and Brienne, but the guy in the gray
X-Files
mask grabs my shoulder and steers me to the end, between the only two kids whose names I don’t know—the boy who wouldn’t introduce himself and the girl who didn’t get a chance.

The girl is about my age, the guy maybe a year younger. When I meet his gaze, he turns away almost angrily, as if I were trying to get him in trouble. The girl whispers, “Maria,” and I turn her way. She has dark braids and dark skin, and she’s taken off her jacket and is wearing a Happy Bunny T-shirt that says
Crazy on the Inside
. I have to smile at that. I just do, even if it’s only a twitch of my lips. She catches my look and nods at Aimee and then waves a scolding finger, pantomiming that my counselor had not been nearly as amused by the shirt. Which is probably why it’d been covered by a jacket earlier.