The Masked Truth(38)

“Max?” she whispers. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

He nods. “A little distracted. Sorry. You said …”

“I was just saying I’m sure it won’t be long now. I thought I heard a siren when we were upstairs, but I didn’t want to mention it to the others and get their hopes up.”

Her hopes are already up. He can see that in the way her eyes glow. His, sadly, are not. He suspects no one heard his SOS or there would have been some reaction by now. Whoever is covering the rear of the building had been too far away to overhear it. But he won’t tell her that. Instead, he nods and smiles, and she leans in again, whispering, “You just need to hold on a little longer. We’ll get you your meds.”

Ah, Riley. Sweet, sweet Riley. Always thinking of others even when you’re convinced you’re only thinking of yourself. You save a little girl’s life and what matters is that you didn’t save more. How can I not have a crush on you?

“I’ll be fine,” he says, and he will be. For her, he will be.

Speaking of sweet …

Shut the bloody hell up. For once, please. Just shut up.

It does. The voice that he won’t tell the doctors about, because it’s a sign. A bad, bad sign. And yet he’s always had the voice, and he suspects it’s not a voice at all, just his busy brain arguing with itself, seeing all the angles, needling him when needling is required. Except he knows, too, that it might still be a sign, one that says he’s always had this, lurking below the surface, biding its time. The schizophrenia monster, disguised as eccentricity and audacity, until it finally erupts in madness.

Riley holds out the blueprint, offering him the chance to lead the way. When he shakes his head, she keeps it, and he’s relieved, because he will hold it together—for her, he’ll hold it together—but it’s best not to rely on him. Just to be safe.





CHAPTER 15


There are no knives in the kitchen. Am I surprised? Not really. We’re mental health patients, and I’m well aware of the suicide statistics, especially for teens, especially for those with PTSD and trauma-related depression and anxiety. I was made aware of them by my first therapist, who constantly poked and prodded for signs of “suicidal ideation.” I finally made the mistake of commenting that I find it hard to get through some days, and I just want to stop. I meant school—that there were days I wanted to take more time off, but I feared if I did, I’d never go back.

He misunderstood—rather willfully, I think. He’d been so hyperalert for signs that he immediately recommended suicide watch to Mom, and when I freaked out, the therapist said that proved I was considering it. My freak-out, though, did not come close to Mom’s. Directed at the therapist. Mom knew that no matter how bad I felt, it was never that bad, and that even in my worst moments, feeling like I didn’t deserve to live when the Porters had died, I’d never considered suicide. I wouldn’t do that to Mom and Sloane.

Yet there isn’t just a lack of knives in the kitchen. There’s a lack of a kitchen … or anything like a real one. The room is still under construction, with half-finished cupboards and sinks not yet connected to a water supply. We were having food delivered for the weekend, and I’d thought that was just to make it easy on the counselors, but obviously there wasn’t an option. They brought in a mini-fridge and filled it with bottled water and soda, and there’s fruit and granola bars on the counter, but otherwise nothing.

We search anyway. Aaron stands watch in the hall. When we are almost done, he pops his head in with “They’re coming!” and we take off, all of us shoeless now, padding down the hallway at a jog, moving in the opposite direction of that relentless thump-thump-thump.

“You aren’t getting out,” Gray calls. “I know you kids are a little messed up, so let me explain it to you. There are two doors. If you have any brains at all, you’ve already checked and seen that they’re locked tight. I heard one of you banging away, so here’s a tip: it won’t help. Those doors are so thick you’d need a grenade to get through them.”

As he talks, we’re on the move, heading away from his voice, checking rooms for a good one to lie low in. I hang back, listening to his diatribe, in case there’s anything we can use.

“So you can pound and shout all you want, kiddies. I know it’s frustrating, having a whole hostage negotiation team just beyond those walls. Your parents too. Well, some of them. Sorry, Brienne, but no one showed up for you. And your dad, Aaron? He’s busy making financial arrangements for your release. Very slowly, though, which is why they think I’m not letting anyone else go. Personally, I think he just put in a call to his banker while he screws his new mistress. Who is, by the way, hotter than the old one, and a helluva lot hotter than your mom. Oh, she is outside. Your mom, I mean. At least someone cares, right? Of course, she has to play good parent if she wants all those child support payments. Your mom’s there too, Maximus, and Riley’s.”

My mom. Oh God, I really didn’t want that. She doesn’t deserve this. Not after everything she’s gone through. But I can’t think about that. Instead, I think of something else, something that is, right now, even more important.

And Gideon? I want to shout back. Maria? How about their parents? Their soon-to-be-grieving parents?

It would do no good. I saw what he did to Aimee, and I heard him laugh when Predator shot Cantina. There’s no capacity for guilt there. No conscience. He calls us crazy? He’s a damn psychopath. They both are.