The Masked Truth(33)

But this is different. This is cold, and it is pointless, and it is callous. It is shooting another human being just because you can.

Well, that shut him up, didn’t it? Ha ha.

Put down like a dog.

“Riley?” Max whispers, his breath warm against my ear.

I imagine Predator casually firing his gun at his partner’s head.

Brains splattered on the wall.

Put down like a dog.

Should have done that earlier.

Ha-ha.

“Riley …”

“I know.” I take a deep breath and struggle to focus.

“Why does everyone call you Mexican?” he asks.

My head jerks up. “Huh?”

“I’m distracting you with an unrelated and potentially rude question. Aaron called you Mexican. So did they. But you don’t have an accent, and I knew a guy at school named Vasquez who was from Spain. So as the foreigner who hasn’t quite figured out your country, what tells them you’re Mexican?”

I want to brush off the question. Really not the time. But that’s the point, isn’t it? I look down at my quavering hands, and when I squeeze my eyes shut, all I see is Predator, pulling the trigger.

I can hear Gray’s and Predator’s footsteps. They’re far enough away and we’re well enough hidden that we’re safe here. For now.

I glance at Max. “I don’t have an accent because my family has been here for three generations. My father’s family comes from Spain. My mother’s is from Cuba. That makes me Hispanic, and the presumption here—far enough from the border that there aren’t a lot of Latino immigrants—is that Hispanic equals Mexican.”

“So Hispanic and Latino mean the same thing?”

I shake my head. “Hispanic means you are descended from a country that speaks Spanish. Latino means you’re descended from a country in Latin America. Some are both, like Cuba. But if you come from Brazil, you’re Latino and not Hispanic, because the official language is Portuguese.”

“And if it’s Spain, it’s Hispanic and not Latino. Excellent. My lesson in American terminology for the day.”

We both listen. The footsteps remain distant. My heart is still thumping, though, so I whisper, “I’m presuming that accent’s real and you are British.”

“Through and through. There might be a hint of Irish thrown in, but” —he lowers his voice to a conspiratorial whisper— “we don’t talk about that.”

When I raise my brows, he says, “I’m joking. Mostly.”

“I’ve heard you mention your parents. Any siblings?”

“Not a one. Mostly it’s just me and Mum. My parents never married. Both on the far side of forty when I came along. Quite the surprise, I’m sure. They decided to just get on with it. Co-parenting and good friends and all that.” Another conspiratorial whisper. “I try not to think about the ‘all that’ part, but they’re responsible adults and I doubt another slip is likely at their age.”

“Uh-huh.”

“A very odd parenting arrangement, I know. But it works. And returning to the question about siblings, I believe you have a sister?”

“Sloane. She’s a year older.”

“Good friend or pain in the arse?”

“Somewhere down the middle. Closer to the latter.” I think of Sloane and of Mom. Have they heard what’s happened yet? I hope they haven’t. As disappointing as it will be to get out there and not run into Mom’s arms, I hope they know nothing of this.

“All right, then,” Max says, slapping his thighs and rising. “I do believe we’ve chatted and stalled quite long enough. As lovely as it would be to stay here until the cavalry arrives, our intrepid captors seem to be searching the building. Best to give them a moving target. Let’s head out, troops.”





CHAPTER 14


Max is right. If they’re systematically hunting for us, we can’t stay where we are.

“We need a cell phone,” I say as we leave the room.

Max frowns over.

“Yes, I know that’s why we went into the therapy room,” I say. “But if Maria’s phone isn’t there, then Aimee left it upstairs.”

“Or the bad guys found and took it.”

True. “But Aimee thought she left it up there. Besides, Gray and Predator just came from upstairs, meaning it’s the last place they’ll look again. We can hunt for the phone and then hide while we wait for whoever heard your SOS.”

“Presuming someone—”

“I know it’s not a given that anyone heard,” I say. “Which is all the more reason we need a cell phone. And your meds. You don’t keep backup ones anywhere, do you?”

He shakes his head. Then his eyes go wide. “Wait. Yes. There are two in my other jeans. I was wearing them yesterday, stuffed my pills in, got distracted with a book and took two from the bottle instead. Then I found the pills later and meant to put them back but got distracted again.”

“Well, it’s a good thing you’re easily distracted then, right?”

I’m teasing him, but his smile falters and he mumbles something as we head into the hall.

“I do that a lot,” I whisper. “Get distracted when I’m reading.” When his cheeks flush, I say, “And the whole I-know-what-that’s-like thing is never helpful, is it? Which I should know from therapy.”