The Masked Truth(45)

“I understand,” I say.

She looks up, lips twisting in a wan smile. “No, you don’t, Riley. But thanks for saying it.”

“You didn’t have a choice.”

“Sure I did. I could have gone to the police. That’s what you would have done.”

“I have no idea what I would have done,” I say softly. “It’s like you said: you can’t know until you’re there.”

“Maybe. But I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

I put my arm around her. “Apology accepted. We’ll figure something out once we—”

A box clatters in the other room, and we both jump as a voice says, “What the hell?” It isn’t Aaron. Or Max. It’s Gray.





MAX: STUPIDITY


Stupidity: behavior that shows a lack of good sense or judgment.



A simple word. A vastly overused word. But in this particular instance? The perfect word.

Mmm, not so sure there, Max. I believe the word you actually want is “dismay.”

Dismay: to feel consternation and distress.

You didn’t want to leave Riley behind, but it was, in fact, the proper response. The sensible one. Brienne is a bit of a mess, and she doesn’t much like you—shockingly—but she does like and trust Riley. Therefore, logically, Riley should stay behind and make sure Brienne doesn’t decide that what she needs—what you all need, really—is to throw yourselves at the mercy of your beneficent kidnappers.

All right, perhaps leaving Riley was not stupidity. It still felt like it.

If he was being honest—let’s, shall we?—he might admit that there was a distinct advantage to being separated from Riley. He’s too busy worrying about her to think about himself.

Is that possible? Truly, Max? Can it be?

Not only is he worried about her, but that worry bolsters his determination to find the way out of this place.

For her? Oh, that’s so sweet. A little arrogant—that you have to be the one to save the day—but still sweet.

There has to be another exit. There just might be. He cannot conceive of a building with front and rear doors and absolutely no other penetrable point of egress. An escape hatch, so to speak. Particularly if the building is being renovated. He doesn’t expect to find a convenient construction hole in the wall—whoops, did we leave that open?—but perhaps some spot that could, with the right tools, be breached.

You’re stretching, Max. You know you are.

It doesn’t matter, because it gives him a goal. Something to focus on while trying not to worry about Riley, and between the two, he’s almost too preoccupied to fret about his meds wearing off. “Almost” being the operative word, because, yes, every time he thinks that, his mind swings that way. Rather like forgetting a patch of spotty skin until you look in the mirror, and then it’s all you think about.

Ah, those were the days, weren’t they, old chap? When an outburst of acne vulgaris could put a damper on the entire day, particularly if there was some big social event on the horizon and a pretty girl you hoped to impress. Because, by heavens, if she saw spots on your chin, that would be the end of it.

Really put things in perspective, didn’t it?

Perspective: a particular attitude toward or way of regarding something.

He really could laugh now, to think that he’d actually worried a girl might turn him down if his skin was spotty that day. Acne came and went, and by his age it had gone completely, having never been much of a problem even at the height of adolescence. Schizophrenia, though? That was a different story. Here today, here tomorrow, here forever, and it’s nothing one can cure with a bit of cream. Even the meds are like the spot cover he’d once nicked from his mother’s makeup drawer. They do an imperfect job of hiding the problem, and as soon as they wear off, nothing has changed.

At least with spots, a girl knows what she is getting. With schizophrenia, presuming the meds were doing their job, any remaining quirks can be chalked up to just that. Quirks.

Quirk: a peculiar behavioral habit.

Which he’d always had, and it never seemed to bother the girls. If anything, they found his quirks charming.

Perhaps they’ll find schizophrenia charming too.

Yes, certainly. Who wouldn’t, really? Perfectly charming, knowing your boyfriend could go off his rocker at any moment, mistake you for the victim of demonic possession and—

And that’s enough of that. Focus, focus, focus. He needs to find a way out. For Riley.

Hmm, perhaps you took my jest seriously. Dating is quite off the menu, Maximus. No matter what you do for her, once you’re out that door, it’s ta-ta for now. It has to be. You know that, don’t you?

Yes, he knows that. Which means that for perhaps the first time in his life, he is doing something for a girl he likes with absolutely no hope of reward beyond a smile.

But it’s an amazing smile. Especially when it’s real, not her smile-to-be-polite or her smile-to-be-friendly or her no-really-I’m-fine smile. When it’s absolutely genuine, and it’s for him. All for him, because he’s done something to make her smile and maybe, for just a second, forget they are both completely snookered.

Because they aren’t. There is still hope. A gun, and if he can focus, he’ll find an escape hatch.

Back to the here and now …