The Masked Truth(18)

Did you, Dad? You liked explaining it, right? You weren’t just being patient with me, because I know you were always patient, always there for us, and now you’re not and I miss you, Dad, miss you so much. It’s not getting better. A year and a half, and it’s not getting better.

I squeeze my eyes shut. I think of those shows, and how the teams are arranged. No one hangs around the front door. Not in real life and mostly not even in Hollywood’s version, because the officers need a wider view and the only reason to be at the door is if they expect someone to come out.

Yet they did expect someone to come out. If Gideon hadn’t opened his mouth, I’d be out there. I’d be free and the others would be waiting their turn and damn you, Gideon. Damn—

I imagine Gideon, lying on the floor. Shot.

My stomach clenches, and I remind myself I didn’t see Gideon get shot. He might have escaped. Either way, he doesn’t deserve any of this, no matter how much I might wish he’d just kept quiet and let me leave.

Had the negotiator known I was about to be released? It seemed not, or there’d be someone outside the door, wondering why it hadn’t opened, close enough to notice that vibration when Max pounded. But there’s a good chance X-Files—or Gray, which was an easier name—didn’t tell them I was coming or he wouldn’t have been able to swap Gideon for me, because it would raise concerns if another kid walked out that door.

Max pounds again. Then he knocks, using his knuckles. I hear that, but barely. He tries his boot next. It’s a Doc Marten, vintage-style, and that’s all I know, not really being my kind of fashion statement. I noticed a slight heel, and I’m hoping there’s steel inside, but when he bangs it on the door it’s only slightly louder than the knock.

He pats his pockets, but anything helpful would have been removed. He knocks again with his boot, whamming it as hard as he can, and the sound isn’t even loud enough to catch the attention of anyone inside the building.

I wave him to me. He comes with reluctance, looking back at the door with every few loping steps.

“There must be a fire extinguisher or something around,” he says. “Maybe I can bash it with that.”

“I looked for fire alarms as we ran. I didn’t see any of those or extinguishers. The building must not be up to code yet. One thing it would have, though, is a back door. It’ll be locked, but it might be thinner.”

He casts one last look at the door, and then he nods. We take off. We reach the first intersection and I stop short, and his hand lands on my shoulder, the first notes of irritation in his voice as he says, “You can do—”

I spin and clap my hand over his mouth. Or I try to. As soon as I raise my hand, he jerks back, his own hands flying up, as if to ward off a blow.

“Sorry,” I whisper. “I just—”

“Don’t do that,” he says. “Don’t ever do that.”

The look on his face makes me freeze. It’s anger, raw anger, and he’s rolling his shoulders, trying to throw it off, but it lingers there, underlaid with something else. Fear.

I’ve wondered why Max is in therapy. With other kids, even if they don’t talk much, I can usually figure out what is wrong: depression, anxiety, eating disorders. Max can be a jerk, but you don’t go to therapy for that. I’ve wondered about anger management—there was a kid with that in my church group, and he’d been withdrawn, like Max, and sarcastic, like Max. But the way Max reacted in the other room, when Gideon lashed out, wasn’t the response of someone with a bad temper. Now he flinched when I raised a hand.

Not a guy who lashes out in anger. A guy accustomed to being the target of that anger. Of being beaten, being abused.

“I would appreciate it if you didn’t stare at me like that,” he says, and his eyes and voice are so cold, I swallow.

“S-sorry,” I say. “I-I stopped because I heard—”

He catches the footsteps now, from down another hall, and he pushes me toward the nearest side one, muttering, “Bloody hell,” and “Can you warn me next time?”

I would have, if you weren’t freaking out because I tried to shush you.

We hurry down the hall and into the first open room.





MAX: CLARITY


Clarity: the quality of being clear, in particular: the quality of coherence and intelligibility.



Max can remember the first time he saw the word. He was five, reading something his mother brought home in a stack of books that he could read but couldn’t understand, not really, and sometimes he’d tell her so, when they’d be in a shop and he’d see some wild adventure story with a bright cartoonish cover and he’d say, “Please, Mum?” Always Mum. Never Mummy, because that was for children, just like the books with the cartoon covers, and he wasn’t a child, well, yes, he was, but he shouldn’t be, because children were loud and sticky and silly, and he saw the way his mother reacted in a room of them, forcing herself through a playdate, nearly plastered to the wall, lest one of the children do something mad, like speak to her.

She had a child of her own, but he wasn’t like others. No, no, not at all. Max was clever, much beyond his years, thank the heavens. So she brought home the sort of books he ought to read and he could read them, and if he couldn’t quite comprehend what he was reading, then he needed more practice, and if she caught him sneaking those adventure novels home from school again … well, he’d get a very stern talking-to, because Max was a clever boy and that’s all he needed: a stern talking-to. Which also meant he was clever enough to hide those books, and he did, but they were not where he first read the word “clarity.”