The Masked Truth (31 page)

She nods as I talk, and then she hugs me, and I know I’ve said the right thing and I will not feel guilty that it’s not entirely the correct thing. It’s true. Every word. That’s enough.

“You tried to save him,” she says.

“Yes.”

“And he tried to save you.”

“He did. Me and Max.”

She stiffens, and I realize I should have left Max out of it.

“I-I should go,” I say. “I just wanted to give my condolences—”

“Have they arrested the boy?”

“Max? I don’t know.”

“It is not your fault. I hope you understand that.”

Now I’m the one tensing. Before I can speak, she says, “The boy is sick. They say it is a mental illness. So I cannot blame him. I will pray for his soul and pray that I am able to forgive him.”

I nod and try to back away again, but she catches my arm. “Some people may blame you. Because of what he said. But you must remember he is sick. Not in his right mind.”

I realize now what she means. “Because of what he wrote in his manifesto. That he wanted to kill me.”

“Yes, it was the ravings of a sick child, and if anyone is to blame, it is that therapist of his.” She crosses herself. “I should not speak ill of the dead.”

“Aimee, you mean?”

“It was in her notes. She knew about him, how he felt about you, and she did nothing.”

“She wrote about me in Max’s therapy notes?”

“That is what the detectives told my Lorenzo’s wife. She told me afterward, poor girl. It was in this Aimee girl’s notes from their private sessions. The boy was in love with you,
and he was angry because you did not return his affections. The girl worried he might become violent, and then she let him come to an overnight camp with you?” Grief and anger cloud the old woman’s face. “What was she thinking?”

I should be asking myself the same thing. But I’m not. Because I think I know the answer.

Max waits around the side of the building. We perch on an empty bike rack.

“I’m going to ask you a question,” I say, “and no matter how much it may seem absolutely none of my business, there is a point to it. An important one.”

“All right.”

“It’s about your sessions with Aimee. I know you didn’t talk in the group sessions. I’m guessing you had private ones?”

“Once a week.”

“What did you talk about?”

He shifts his weight. “The usual.”

“Max … I’m not prying. There’s a reason, and I need to hear your answer so I can form an unbiased opinion on something.”

“The usual means exactly what one might expect from therapy with an eighteen-year-old schizophrenic. They start by pussyfooting around the ‘so, any violent and paranoid impulses lately’ question. I’ve learned to get that out of the way in the first five minutes. It’s rather like confession. Listing all those impulses you might have over the course of daily life, like cursing at someone who cuts you off in traffic. That’s as far as it goes with me since the meds got straightened around, and there’s precious little of that. I’d need to actually
be allowed to drive a motor vehicle to curse someone out for cutting me off. Or be permitted to leave the house on my own.”

“You aren’t allowed to leave the house?”

He makes a face. “Sorry. Flash of petulance there. It happens. Just ignore it. So I would make my tiny confessions and then we’d discuss my
feelings
. Because, really, there is so much variety to discuss. One day I’m bitter and angry, and the next I’m thanking the good Lord for allowing me such a marvelous opportunity to test my resilience.” He pauses. “And
that
was bitter and angry sarcasm. Now you see why I don’t like to discuss my life these days. Because it hardly shows my best side.”

“I don’t blame you.” I pause. “Sorry. I know you don’t want me saying that.”

He passes me a wry smile. “To be perfectly honest, I rather like hearing it. Much better than what I hear in here”—he taps his head—“which tells me to stop whining about my lot in life and deal with it. Which would be lovely, except … I
want
to deal with it. Stiff upper lip and all that. But it’s not exactly working out so far. Now, back on task. Aimee. Lovely girl. Rubbish therapist. She’d tell me that I have the right to be bitter and angry, but the difference when you say it is that I feel you mean it. She’s just reciting what she’s been taught. So that was it, really.
How do you feel about that, Maximus?
I feel shitty. Absolutely shitty. As
you should, Maximus. Now, let’s explore those feelings of shittiness some more
.” He rolls his eyes. “That was the extent of it. Feelings, feelings and more feelings with absolutely no attempt to solve the core issues causing those feelings.”

I nod. “Okay. Another question, then. This one is going to sound weird and random—”

“You don’t need to keep explaining, Riley. I know there’s a point to everything you’re asking.”

“Did you ever talk to Aimee about me?”

That startles him, and he rocks forward. “What?”

“Did you ever, in any context, talk to Aimee about me?”

He seems ready to duck the question, even more uncomfortable than when I asked about therapy. Then he says, “She brought you up. A few times, actually. The first … She said I was ‘watching’ you.” He air-quotes “watching.” “I didn’t like the way she said it, as if I were stalking you, and I let her know that.”

“What did you say?”

He shifts and looks off into the distance.

“You don’t have to answer, obviously,” I say. “I can tell you what she said, and you can tell me what happened—”

“And then it will sound as if I’m tailoring my answer to hers, which doesn’t help you at all. She said I was watching you. I said if I seemed to be, then it was simply that’s where my gaze landed when I was daydreaming, and yes, I may look your way now and then, but you’re a pretty girl and it’d be odder if I
didn’t
.”

Before I can respond, he continues, “She didn’t drop it there. Later, she said she caught me ‘following’ you after a session. You went to use the toilet, and I headed the same way. Then I turned back. I could have said I changed my mind, but I was honest. I told Aimee that you’d said something in therapy, and I wanted to comment on it in private, but I chickened out. An impulse quickly stifled. Following you down a hall
once
—and then turning back—hardly constitutes stalking. But that’s what she suggested. I was not pleased. So she changed tactics. Rather than intimating I might have an unhealthy interest in you, she began suggesting I had a perfectly healthy one. That perhaps she could have the two of us in for joint counseling, because I might be more comfortable talking if it was only you. She made it seem like it was just therapy, but …”

He adjusts his stance, leaning on the bike rack. “It felt as if she thought I fancied you and was trying to match us up. I called her out on it. I said dating was the last thing on my mind right now, and as my therapist, she should be arguing
against
it, not trying to set me up. She got defensive, said that wasn’t what she was doing, accused me of transference, that I did fancy you and was putting that on her.” He purses his lips. “It may have been the only time we had an honest conversation. Certainly the first time I got a reaction out of her.”

“And then?”

“That was it. We had one more session after that, but when she brought you up, I pulled my high-and-mighty routine and told her to stick to her job and suggested your family would not be pleased to know she’d been trying to match you up with a diagnosed schizophrenic.”

There’s at least a minute of silence before he says, “Dare I ask what she said? I’m guessing you heard something up there from Lorenzo’s wife? That Aimee made some comment about me and you, presumably one that supports that manifesto rubbish?”

I tell him what Aimee’s therapy notes say. There wasn’t a moment when I thought they could be true, but if there had been, the horror on his face would have eradicated that.

“She said—? No. Just …” A violent shake of his head. “
No
. Absolutely not, Riley. That’s … I can’t …”

“I didn’t think it was true.”

“Thank you, because … No. Just …” He points at his mouth. “Loss for words here, which, as you might have noticed, does not happen often. I understood the manifesto rubbish—that was someone framing me, and if you’re going to explain why an eighteen-year-old boy does something daft, the obvious answer is a girl. But for Aimee to say I … Yes, I admitted I might … if the circumstances were different … 
But no, just
no
. Even if I did fancy you and even if you rejected me—which obviously did
not
happen—I’ve never kept after a girl who wasn’t interested. I don’t have to …”

“You don’t have to force girls to go out with you.”

“That sounds cheeky. But I’ve never needed to, and I wouldn’t, and … I don’t even know where to go with this. I have no idea why Aimee would say that. Why she’d say any of it. Including that she was concerned I’d turn violent. The worst thing I confessed to was that I occasionally want to tell my mother to clear off and leave me alone.”

“That applies to all mothers at some point.”

He manages a half smile, but it’s strained. This has spooked him, in a way the manifesto didn’t. “I don’t know what to tell you, Riley. I don’t know if it’s possible that I said something I don’t remember, that I lost the plot for a few moments and said things I can’t
imagine
I’d ever say, but if I did, why wouldn’t she tell me? Tell my mother? Why would she
ever
let me go to that overnight with you?”

“How did you end up at the weekend session?”

“Hmm?” He looks up and his eyes are unfocused, questions still swirling too fast for him to rise far from his thoughts. “How …? Right. That’s the thing. It was her idea.”

“Tell me about that,” I say. “How it came about.”

He shrugs, as if wanting to throw off the question and pursue more important ones. “Aimee suggested it. I said no. Bloody hell, no. Sleepover group therapy? Absolutely not. She went to my mother and convinced her it was what I needed—the social interaction and all that. I still argued, but then I found out you were going and—” He stops, eyes widening as he realizes what he’s said. He runs a hand through his hair, partly dislodging the band again. “Bugger it. That doesn’t help my case at all, does it? Yes, all right, I thought if you were going, perhaps I could speak to you.”

“About what?”

Another shrug, his cheeks coloring. “Just speak to you. I knew I should be making more of an effort, and you seemed like someone I could talk to.
Not
in the way Aimee thought. And I never mentioned to her that I wanted to speak to you, because that would have only exacerbated the situation, so …” He clears his throat and eases back. “That was it, then. My mum wanted me to go, and I decided I was not utterly opposed to the plan.”

“It wasn’t Lorenzo,” I say.

“Hmm?”

“We know they needed to have someone on the inside. That map made me think it was Lorenzo. But there was no proof it was his map and that it wasn’t planted, like that manifesto and your fingerprints. The fact he was added at the last moment seemed suspicious, but it was just bad luck. Aimee needed a co-therapist for the weekend, to make it legit.”

“And when the first one backed out, she got Lorenzo to fill in.”

I nodded. “But he didn’t play any role. He couldn’t—we weren’t
his
patients. Whoever arranged this had to make sure you and I were there. If Aimee wrote those notes before she went to the sleepover Friday, it was preplanned. We had to be there. You are the scapegoat and I’m the reason you went off. Like you, I resisted going—not my idea of a fun weekend. She also did an end run around me to my mother. It was Aimee who sent us after the cell phone that wasn’t there, along with the meds that also weren’t there. Did you hear what she said to Gray before he shot her?”

“Oh, it’s you.”
Max nods. “I thought she mistook him for Aaron, that the lighting was poor and they’re of a similar size.”

“I thought the same. Then, after he shot her the first time, she said, ‘Why me?’ and he said that her job was done, we didn’t need more therapy, and he didn’t need any loose ends.”

“Which made sense in context, but makes even more sense if she was in on the scheme. You, Riley Vasquez, are absolutely brilliant.”

He gives me a smack on the lips, like a high-five. Then he pauses and gives me a real kiss, his arms around me, pulling me against him, and
damn
, it’s a kiss, and it’s far from my first, but at that moment, it feels like it. Then he stops short and backs up sharply with, “Right. Sorry. No. You need to stop letting me do that.”

“No,
you
need to stop that. Because it’s kinda not my responsibility.”

“Yes. Of course.” His gaze drops lower as he fidgets. Then he stops. “Does that mean you don’t mind it?” Before I can answer, he straightens. “No, sorry. Not the point. Not the point at all. If you don’t, that’s … well, that’s good. Or it would be. Except that the larger problem is that I can’t be kissing … That is to say, I shouldn’t … No, I
cannot
.”

“Then
stop
kissing me, Max, because you’re setting up an expectation you have no intention of following through on.”

“Yes. Of course. I didn’t mean … It was an impulse, and I apologize for indulging it.”

“Once is an impulse. You’ve kissed me more than once.”

“A repetitive impulse?”

I give him a hard look.

“A new symptom?” he tries.

A harder look.

He sighs. “All right. Not a symptom. It’s just me. I … You’re … Aimee may have been a poor therapist—and an accomplice to mass murder—but she was not entirely mistaken in thinking I fancied you. I just … It wasn’t the way … That is …”

“Let me cut through this, because as much fun as it is to watch you squirm, getting your name cleared is a little more important right now. You’re kissing me on impulse when
you know you shouldn’t. Now, it could be that you’re pulling that bad-romance-novel crap.” I put on my best romantic-hero voice, complete with extravagant hand gestures. “ ‘No, we shouldn’t be together, really we shouldn’t … unless you want to and can convince me all my fears are for naught.’ ”