The Masked Truth(20)

“Exactly,” he says, a little too quickly. “At first, when it started, it seemed surreal. Maybe that was shock. It took me a while to think straight and realize that they’d never trick a minor that way, and it’s likely unethical to do it at all without permission.”

She nods, still slowly. It’s not the best explanation, but she’ll take it. Confusion and shock, yes, ma’am, that’s all it was. Not that I meant I thought it wasn’t real because I’ve had hallucinations before.

“So you’re okay now?” she asks.

There’s a split second where reality and his inner monologue merge, and he almost says yes, he’s fine, or so they say, with the new meds, and he hasn’t hallucinated in months. Which is not, of course, what she’s asking at all, and he catches himself and smiles. “Right as—”

“Right as rain,” she says. “Got it.” And she shakes her head, but she smiles too, that slightly exasperated smile, like he’s a bit daft but not really, you know, crazy.

He hears something in the hall, and he looks that way, sharply, then at her, seeing if she noticed it too, because that’s the barometer these days: If I see or hear something, is it just me?

Except that isn’t what’s happening here, and he’s certain of it, because the scenario has gone on too long, become too involved and too logical—as logical as a hostage situation can be. The meds have been working, and he has to trust that—trust, trust, trust—because while they have their side effects—tremors, difficulty sleeping, dry mouth—the alternative is worse. He can live like this, or so they say, though he hasn’t yet decided what kind of life this is, always worrying, always wondering. But for now, the meds … the meds …

He swears under his breath.

“What’s wrong?” Riley whispers.

“Do you know where they put our belongings? The things they confiscated?”

Her eyes widen and he thinks, Bugger it, what did I say? I’m making sense, aren’t I? Because that’s another symptom. He has them memorized, all the unexperienced signs that could pop up and say hello at any given moment. Like disorganized speech—more colorfully known as word salad—where what one believes one is saying has little in common with what one actually says. His doctor doubts Max will ever have that, because his thoughts aren’t truly disorganized thoughts, not the way they could be, just, well, not exactly orderly. Organized but not orderly.

“The cell phones,” she says. “Of course.” Then a blazing smile. “You’re brilliant.”

Why yes, yes I am, thank you for recognizing that, even if it wasn’t what I meant at all. No, of course it was. Because: I. Am. Brilliant.

“Yes, the mobiles,” he says. “If we can get to them, we can make contact. Did you bring one?”

She shakes her head. “You?”

Me? No, I don’t own a mobile. Not anymore. Who would I call? Ah, yes. My friends. Perhaps my best friend, Justin. No, wait … Justin wants nothing to do with me. He’s made that quite clear. And I’m not sure my other mates would take my calls. Not after “the incident.”

No need for a mobile, then, not when I sit in the bloody house all day, reading and studying and pretending I’ll go to uni soon. Of course I will. That’s what Mum says. Just relax, Maximus. There’s no rush. Take some time off. Make sure the meds are working this time.

You want to go out, Max? I’ll take you anywhere you like. By yourself? Oh, Max, I don’t think that’s wise. Not yet. Yes, yes, it’s been three months without an episode, but still …

But still …

“Max?”

He shakes his head. “I didn’t bring mine either. I’m sure someone did, though. We’ll look for a rear door first. That will be plan B.”

“Plan B? Or plan C?” A smile, not really for him, just relief at having plans, but he’ll take it anyway.

“We’ll make it plan B.” He looks toward the door. “Do you hear anything?”

“A couple of minutes ago. Nothing since.”

“Good. Off we go, then.”





CHAPTER 9


Find the back door. Find the cell phones. Back door. Cell phones.

I mentally repeat that mantra as I lead Max down the hall.

I take a better look at the warehouse now as we walk. There are, of course, no windows. Distraction-free, as Aimee promised. Which also means escape-route-free, except for those doors. The locked, thick steel doors. I just pray the rear one won’t be as thick.

I have no idea where I’m heading. We’re presuming the second exit is literally a back door—in the opposite direction of the front one. But it could be at the side, so I’m trying to stick to the edges. The building is a rectangle, which should make the layout obvious, but, like I thought earlier, whoever designed it must have decided a grid pattern of halls and rooms is too easy. Boring. Let’s have some fun!

Halls run maybe twenty feet, past two or three doors, and then end at another corridor. Max and I will head down that one to find a branching corridor, seemingly leading to more rooms, and then it’ll end too. I have no idea if I’m at the far side of the building or not because there are no windows.

And let’s talk about the rooms. So many rooms. Half seem to be locked. At the rate I’m passing doors, I’m going to guess there are at least twenty rooms on this floor alone.