The Masked Truth(48)

He’s gone, Max. He’s been gone for a while.

No, he can’t be. He’s still bleeding. Look, the blood, it’s still pumping—

No, he’s bleeding due to gravity. His heart has stopped.

Bloody hell, he doesn’t want facts unless they’re going to help him save Aaron.

Can’t save him. Can’t save anyone, Maximus. Are you sure he was the one holding the gun?

What? Of course. Aaron was looking down the barrel—

And you were reaching for the gun. Are you quite certain you didn’t struggle for it? You have schizophrenia. You see things. Imagine things. Are you sure Aaron shot himself accidentally? Really, truly sure?

Max squeezes his eyes shut, silences the voice and crouches there, holding the cloth against Aaron’s neck, uselessly blocking the holes as the last of Aaron’s lifeblood seeps through.





CHAPTER 18


I hear Gray curse in the next room, and I’m on my feet, tugging Brienne along as she wipes away tears and follows. I crack open the hall door just enough to see Gray’s back as he steps into the adjoining room.

I’m straining to hear their footsteps when Predator chuckles and whispers, “Almost missed that,” and I know he’s seen the second door. I don’t wait for Gray’s reply. I slip into the hall. Brienne follows. We tiptoe the other way. There’s a corner just ahead, and I slink along the wall to it, while watching over my shoulder to be sure Gray and Predator don’t come back into the hall before we make it.

Just a little farther. I can hear boots clomping around the other rooms as they hunt for us.

Three more steps. A voice. A grumble. Then Gray’s “Come on out, kiddies,” and I pick up the pace and dart around the corner and—

“Hello, Riley.”

It’s Predator. Standing right there. Smirking at me. I lunge, letter opener out, and I stab him. I don’t even realize what I’m doing. It’s pure reflex. A fencer’s reflex.

I stab as hard as I can, and the blade sinks into his side, and he snarls, “You little bitch!” and I yell, “Run!” and when Brienne hesitates, I yell it again as I yank the letter opener out, and I go to stab him again, but he backhands me and the opener flies into the wall, clanking, and I see the gun rise, and again I don’t think, I just react. I spin, and I run.

I run as fast as I can after Brienne, already disappearing around another corner. But I’m not wearing shoes, and as good as that was for keeping quiet, it means I don’t have any traction, and I slip and slide and that—that—is what saves my life. Predator fires, and I hear the suppressed shot, and it’s too late to dive out of the way, but I’m skidding to the side, and the bullet only grazes my thigh. I keep running. By the time he fires again, I’m diving around a corner, and he misses completely, and then I see Brienne ahead, in a doorway.

I look back for Predator. I don’t see him. I do see a trail of blood following me. I run past Brienne. She gasps and opens her mouth to stop me, but I race around the corner through the next doorway. Then I slap my hand over my bleeding thigh and run back to her, being careful to stay out of my blood trail.

I dart into the room with Brienne. She closes the door, and we retreat behind a pile of boxes. I’m limping now. It’s more than a graze. Pain burns through my leg. I get behind the boxes and I sit and try to check the wound, but all I see is a rip in my jeans. A blood-drenched rip. The bullet isn’t lodged in my leg—I saw it hit the wall. The wound is somewhere between a graze and a shot, leaving a gash that’s bleeding steadily but isn’t life-threatening.

I take off my belt and fasten it just above the wound. I have no idea if it needs a tourniquet—or even if I’ve done it right—but it seems to slow the bleeding. Then I take off my socks and stuff them into the hole in my jeans.

“Should have done that earlier,” I say, waggling my bare toes. “More traction barefoot. You should take off yours too.”

Brienne just stares at me. Then she blinks and, wordlessly, pulls off her socks and hands them to me.

“I don’t need—” I begin.

She stuffs them into my pocket, as if for later. She doesn’t say that, though. Doesn’t say a word until she lifts her gaze to mine and says, “I ran.”

“I know. That was the idea.”

“No, I ran. I didn’t think about anything else. I didn’t think about you.”

“Which is what you’re supposed to do.” I look her in the eyes. “This is about surviving, Brienne. About one of us getting out and bringing back help for the wounded. And if no one’s left to help? Then the goal is for someone to get out and tell our story. Tell the police. Tell our parents.”

“Yours maybe. Mine won’t give a damn.”

I want to tell her no, that’s not right, I’m sure they will, any parent would, but that’s bullshit, isn’t it? It’s a stranger talking from her own experience. I don’t know Brienne’s family, and I hope to God she just feels that way, as we all do sometimes, like no one cares. But I don’t know the truth, and it would be condescending of me to say she’s wrong.

“The goal is survival, Brienne,” I say. “We’re looking after each other as best we can, but you couldn’t have helped me with him. If you jumped in, we might have both been shot. When I said run, I meant run.”