The Masked Truth(22)

That’s not actually what he said. His voice is low, soft even, his wording polite, his tone apologetic. Yet all I can see is a dying man and my brain screams that we need to do something, do anything, to save him.

And how exactly would I do that? Sloane was the lifeguard. She’d studied CPR. I didn’t like the water, one of those “childhood incident” things that never quite goes away. Last year, I’d signed up for a first-aid course with Shannon, back when we were still friends, but we’d skipped out to sneak into a summer concert.

I still remember giggling about that. Hey, look at me, being all rebellious. I remember, too, covering protests in Egypt for the school paper, and talking on Skype to someone who’d been there, and thinking that was real rebellion, honest rebellion, and me? I skipped a first-aid course once to go to a concert.

How many times have I thought of that missed course? Starting with kneeling beside the Porters’ bodies. Now, seeing Lorenzo, the floor opens up and I’m back there, beside their bodies, thinking, You idiot, you stupid little idiot, why didn’t you take the course, and it doesn’t matter if they’re dead, if you have no doubt they’re dead, what would you do if they weren’t, and you couldn’t help them because of that goddamn concert and—

“Riley?”

That isn’t Max or Lorenzo speaking. I’m not in the warehouse anymore. I’m crouching beside the bodies of two people I saw alive only moments before and there’s a voice on the steps, calling, “Riley?” and I jump up, ready to shout, No! Stay there, Darla! but I’m not certain the killers are far enough away that they won’t hear me, so I rush toward the stairs and I grip the railing and my hand slips because it’s covered in blood. Their blood. Her parents’ blood. And she’s coming down the steps, close enough for me to hear her breathing, and I go to wipe my hands on my jeans, but that won’t help and—

“Riley?”

Another voice, this one jerking me back. Fingers on my elbow. The fog clears and I see dark blue eyes, and I think, Who has those eyes? and I have no idea until the face comes into focus, and even then the first thing I see is freckles over a nose and a faint scar underscoring a cheekbone, and I don’t recognize those either until I see the rest of the face—the arched nose, the too-sharp chin, the blond hair plastered by sweat to the side of his face.

Max.

Of course it’s Max, but there’s a surreal moment where I doubt myself, because I’ve been running for my life with the guy and I never noticed the color of his eyes or his freckles or his scar. I didn’t get too close. Didn’t look too hard. That’s my life these days. I spent almost three hours with a group of kids—first in therapy and then as captives—and I couldn’t tell you any of their eye colors. I just didn’t care enough to notice.

“Riley?” Max says.

“Turn toward the wall.” That’s Lorenzo, rasping, his words barely more than breath. I glance down at him and he says, “It’s the blood. Look away, Riley, and focus on something else.” A pained chuckle. “Think about all the more exciting things you could have been doing this weekend.”

I swallow, and I move toward him.

He shakes his head, grimacing with the effort. “Turn away. It’ll be easier if—”

“I don’t want it to be easier.” It shouldn’t be easier. You’re dying, and you’re telling me to look away because it’s triggering my trauma. I skirt the blood and crouch by his head. “Is there anything we can do?”

“Survive.”

I glance at Max, and he’s breathing shallowly through his mouth, and maybe it’s the smell of the blood, but I think he’s struggling to keep calm, to not think about the fact a man is dying in front of us and there’s not a damn thing we can do.

“I-I don’t know first aid,” I say.

A weak smile. “I believe I’m a little beyond that, Riley.” He reaches to take my hand and then sees his is covered in blood, and he stops, and I teeter on the edge of that memory, of myself looking at the blood on my hands, and I squeeze my eyes shut before I topple back into it.

“We can get a mobile,” Max says, his voice low. “Call for help. That’s what we can do. I know they took yours and Aimee’s, but are there any others?”

“Two kids brought theirs. They’re with …” Lorenzo trails off as shoes squeak in the hall.

I dart to the door, left cracked open for that little extra light, and I start to ease it shut. Then I hear someone struggling to catch his breath and keep quiet. I peek out. It’s Aimee.

I open the door, and she wheels and spots me. Her mouth forms a perfect O. Then her gaze drops to the blood on the floor. She sprints over, shoes squeaking again, and I wince, but I don’t hear anyone else.

I usher her inside. She sees Lorenzo and stops with a yelp. I resist the urge to clap my hand to her mouth and instead motion frantically for her to keep her voice down.

“They need …” Lorenzo struggles, as if he used up his energy talking to us. “Cell phone. You have …”

“You have the mobiles,” Max says to Aimee. “Is that right? The ones you confiscated?”

She’s staring dumbly at Lorenzo. I have to take her arm and squeeze, and even then her gaze barely flicks my way.