The Masked Truth(24)

“What if it’s Aaron or Brienne?” she whispers.

“We’ll know that once we hear a voice,” Max says.

She glares at him. “You mean, when they’re shouting for help? Or pleading for their lives?”

“No need. If they’re like you, they won’t stop talking.”

He gets a real scowl for that. I whisper that we should retreat to a room and listen. He agrees. Aimee doesn’t—she’s certain the sound is the other kids, that our captors would make more noise as they search. She’s mid-explanation when Max lopes off, waving for me to follow. I do, and she reluctantly comes after us.

The first door we check is open. Inside is an actual office, or the beginnings of one, as if someone has started moving equipment in, preparing to take up residence. There’s a desk, a printer still in the box, a bookshelf and moving cartons. And what do I see when I look at them? Nothing except obstacles to stumble over and places to hide.

We get into the room, and I scoot behind the desk, Max vaulting over it, both of us stopping as we almost crash into each other, his lips twitching as if amused that we’ve both managed—in a single sweep of a dark room—to spot the biggest item and race behind it.

“Good idea,” Aimee whispers. “You two stay there. I’m going to get a better look.”

I leap up to stop her, but she’s already out the door and Max is ready to grab me back. He doesn’t need to. If she’s going to run headlong into danger, I can’t stop her. I can only hope she doesn’t lead danger back here.

I think that, and then I hate myself for it. Ah, self-loathing, I missed you for a few moments there.

But I’m not the only one thinking it, because Max grunts, exasperated, then hops over the desk and shuts the door all but a crack, enough to let her back in if she comes running but not wide enough to welcome her back if there’s a posse on her tail.

I strain to hear her footsteps. She took off her pumps when we left Lorenzo. They’re on the floor here, and wherever she is, she’s moving silently.

A distant click, like a door. Then Aimee says, “Oh, it’s you.” I wince at the loudness of her voice, and Max mutters a curse. Then Aimee inhales, sharply enough for the sound to carry.

“N-no,” she says, and I hear her then, as she backs up, and I grab the side of the desk, ready to scramble over it, knowing she’s made a mistake.

“Don’t. Please—”

The gun fires, and I’m over that desk before Max can stop me. Then I freeze.

Max vaults the desk, and he’s at my side, not pulling me back, just standing with me, listening to Aimee whimper. My gut seizes and my legs tremble, and I want … I don’t know what I want. To hide. To save her. To save her and to hide, to help her and yet not to do something stupid and pointless, like run out there and get myself and Max killed.

“Why?” she says. “Why me?”

“Because your job here is done, Aimee.” It’s Gray, his voice moving closer. “These kids aren’t going to need therapy. And we don’t need any loose ends.”

The gun fires again. I jerk back. Max grabs me. Then I see the door, still cracked open, and I go to close it, but before I do, I look. I need to look. I peer through the crack. They’re right there, ten feet away, at a junction. Aimee on the floor, dead. Gray stands over her …

Before I shut the door, I see that Aimee must have mistaken Gray for Aaron—he’s about the same height and wearing the same color clothes. Then she’d noticed the mask.

Max’s fingers close tight around my arm, and he guides me back behind the desk.

He talks to me, whispering so low I can barely hear him through my shock. I don’t think it matters what he’s saying. His tone is soothing but firm, and it says that we’re going to get out of here, I need to trust that we’ll get out of here.

After a moment, the numbness fades and I hear his words. He’s not telling me vague reassurances that we’ll get out. He’s outlining the steps, giving me a concrete footing.

“Promise me something,” I whisper when my mental feet are firmly on the ground again.

A quirk of a smile as he whispers back, “Depends on what it is.”

“I need to know that if something goes wrong—if we’re out there, like Aimee, and I freeze up in a flashback—you’ll keep going.”

He pauses. “Is that what happens? Flashbacks?”

“That’s not the—”

“Is there a trigger? Blood, I suppose, obviously, and guns.”

“Max …”

“Is there something that will snap you out of it? Talking to you? Squeezing your arm?”

“That’s not the point.”

“Actually, yes, it is.” He pops his head over the desk. “Seems quiet. We’ll talk later. With any luck, we won’t need to.”

“Max, I asked you—”

“I ignored the request and will continue ignoring it.” He pushes to his feet. “We can circle back to avoid seeing—”

“No. We’d need to go all the way back around, because I’m not sure how else to get to the therapy room. You want to see what a flashback looks like? How I might endanger your life by freezing up? Then we’re going past Aimee for a full demonstration.”