The Masked Truth(50)

Brienne’s dead.

Dead.

Let me be brave, Riley.

I hear Gray’s words again, “stupid little bitch,” and the tears evaporate in a wave of fury, and I leap to my feet, and I’ve heard the expression “I want to kill him,” and I hate it, I’ve always hated it, never understood how anyone could say that in jest, because it wasn’t jest. Never understood how anyone could say it in anger either, to feel that much hate for another person.

I do now.

If Gray were here and I had a gun in my hand—if I had any weapon in my hand … No, even without a weapon, if he came around that corner, I’d throw myself at him and I’d kill him any way I could, for what he did to Maria and Aimee and now to Brienne, for the unbelievable callousness with which he took their lives.

I clench my fists, and I want to stride down this hall, and I don’t care how stupid it is, how reckless. I want to find him and kill him or die trying.

Which is stupid. More than stupid. Because Brienne is dead, and she died saving my life, and now I’m going to throw it away on revenge?

I take a deep breath, stand and then sway there, my injured leg suddenly aching so much it can barely hold me up. It wants to give way, and I want to let it. Sink to the floor again and cry and wait for rescue. Pray for rescue.

Throw away Brienne’s gift through revenge? Or by surrendering?

Neither, of course. I can do neither.

So I do the only thing I can: I set out in search of Max and Aaron. I suppose I should say I steel myself and wipe away my tears and set out, dry-eyed. I don’t. But I do set out.

I barely notice the blood. Even when I do, there’s a moment where I’m not sure what I’m seeing. It’s just a thin, dark trickle of something like motor oil snaking from under a closed door. Then the emergency light reflects off the liquid, and I see that it’s red, and my brain moves sluggishly, thinking, Is this where we left Lorenzo? Or where I stabbed Predator?

It’s not, though. I know that, and the second I realize it, I’m lunging for that door so fast I fall against it. I throw it open, and I see a body on the floor, and there’s blood, and oh God, there’s a body on the floor and there’s blood.

I stumble in, and there’s light, and my gaze goes straight to it, and I see it’s Aaron’s penlight, in a pool of blood, shining on him. Shining on Aaron, lying on the floor, staring at the ceiling. I run to him, and I crouch beside him, but I can see it’s useless. His eyes are open and his throat is covered in blood. And he’s dead.

Aaron is dead.

Aaron, Brienne, Aimee, Maria, Gideon …

Max.

Oh God, Max. No, no, no—

I hear a noise behind me, and I turn, and there’s Max, sitting on a box, staring at Aaron.

“Max?”

He looks up, and it’s only then, when he moves, that I can move, and I throw myself at him. His arms go up to ward me off, but it’s too late. I throw myself into his arms, and I hug him as hard as I can, and his arms go around me, and it’s a tentative embrace, but I don’t care.

I hug him and I bury my face against his shoulder and I let out a sob. He hugs me back then, squeezing me tight, and I feel him shaking against me, and when he speaks, he says, “I didn’t do it,” and I pull back, not sure I heard right.

“I didn’t do it,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. His eyes are empty, dull with shock, and he’s still trembling, and I realize what he’s said and I say, “Of course you didn’t—”

“He had the gun. He was trying to get it working. I told him not to. I should have—” He swallows. “I wasn’t paying enough attention. He didn’t listen to me, and I thought, Sod him, and I left him to it, and I should have stopped him. Made him stop.”

“The gun went off,” I say.

He nods. “I wasn’t near …” He squeezes his eyes shut. “No. I was reaching for it, and I’m certain I didn’t touch it, but maybe I did, maybe I knocked it or brushed it or—”

“You can’t brush a gun and make it fire, Max,” I say softly.

“But I was reaching. That’s all I remember. I was reaching and he was looking at it, and it went off, and maybe … maybe I wasn’t where I thought I was. Wasn’t doing what I thought I was. It just went off, and I don’t know how— The magazine’s out, so how did it even fire?”

I cut him short with another fierce hug, and whisper, “Stay here, okay?” and he nods. I back up, and I’m standing in the blood—it’s everywhere. But I carefully back up while trying not to look at Aaron’s body.

Aaron’s body.

Aaron’s dead.

I hear him talking about his father, the frustration in his voice, the hurt too, as much as he tried to hide it, and then I hear Brienne and—

I take a deep breath and hush the memories. I don’t silence them. I can’t. I shouldn’t. But if I keep thinking about them, I’ll go mad. Aaron and Brienne don’t need my help anymore. Max does.

“You cleared a stovepipe jam, right? Cartridge sticking out?” I can see it on the floor.

“Aaron did. Then he removed the magazine.”

“After he cleared it. After he chambered a live round.”

He nods slowly, as if struggling to process my words. “R-right. Yes.”