The Masked Truth(51)

That explains the gun firing—and why Aaron would look down the barrel, presuming it was safe, the magazine being out. Now the question of where Max was at the time.

I look at the blood pool. Then I point to a spot just inside the door. “You were standing there.”

“Maybe. I don’t—”

“I’m not asking you, Max. I’m telling you. There’s a void in the blood there, and then your footsteps through the spray, which means you were there when the gun went off.”

“All right.”

“And Aaron was standing where he fell. How tall are you?”

He blinks and I think he’s going to ask why, but after a moment he says, “Six feet.”

“Whew. I thought you were going to tell me in metric, and then I’d be screwed.”

The corners of his lips twitch in something that can’t quite be called a smile, but he relaxes, just a little. “We measure height in imperial, same as you.”

“All right. You’re six feet tall and Aaron was maybe two inches shorter. If arm length is roughly half of height, then the farthest you can reach each other is about six feet away. That”—I motion from the bare spot to Aaron’s body—“is more like eight feet, and I’m sure he didn’t have his arm extended toward yours, either. Meaning you had nothing to do with the gun firing.”

Aaron is dead either way. But I do expect to see Max’s shock and tension fade a little. If anything, though, his face tightens more.

“What if … what if it didn’t happen like that?”

“Didn’t it?”

“I—” He rubs his hands over his face. Aaron’s blood is on them, streaking his cheek. “I don’t know, Riley. Bugger it, I don’t know. The meds … I get confused sometimes … I’m … I’m afraid …”

“That it didn’t happen the way you think it did? That, what, you shot him?”

I’m being a little sarcastic there, maybe. Because of course he can’t think that. How could he “accidentally” do that and forget it? No matter how foggy the meds might make him. For another thing, I’ve seen enough of Max to know there’s no way he got pissed off with Aaron and shot him. But the look on his face says he isn’t sure. It’s shock. It must be, so I say, as carefully as I can, “Where’s the gun, Max?”

“I-I don’t—”

“Look. It’s in Aaron’s hand.”

“All right. All right. All right.” He’s repeating the words fast, as if pushing off panic, trying to reassure himself.

“It’s in his hand, and his fingers are still holding it, and even if—I don’t know—you had a psychotic break or something and shot him and tried to make it look like an accident, you couldn’t get his fingers to hold it like that. Not after he was dead.”

“Right. Right.”

“Max? I need you to focus. You’re all I have left.”

As I say that, I realize what I’m saying, and his head shoots up, and I curse myself for breaking it to him that way. He says, “Brienne?” and my knees wobble. He’s there in a second, grabbing me before I fall, and I collapse against him, and it’s like I managed to hold it together just long enough to pull him back, and then I lose it, because she’s dead. They’re all dead. I can pretend Lorenzo might have lived, but it’s been hours, and I know he hasn’t. Everyone’s gone, and once again, I’m alive.

Why me? Goddamn it, why me?

Survivor’s guilt. That’s what they call it in therapy, and I don’t ever tell anyone that, because it sounds so selfish and ridiculous. You feel bad because you survived? Think about those who didn’t and stop your damned whining.

But it’s not whining. It’s guilt. Horrible, suffocating guilt, because I lived and the Porters didn’t. I got to go home to my family, and Darla doesn’t have a family anymore. Now I’m alive in this warehouse and almost everyone else is dead, and all I can think is how unfair that is, because I don’t deserve to live more than they did. If anything, I deserve it less—I already survived a tragedy once, now surely it must be someone else’s turn?

“She wanted to be brave,” I whisper against Max’s shoulder. “She kept telling me I was brave and she wanted to be, and … and … I didn’t do enough. Didn’t say enough.”

“What happened?”

I shake my head and pull back. “Later. We—”

“Tell me what happened, Riley. Get it out and then we’ll go.”

I do. I tell him how we attacked Predator, and Brienne took his gun and lured Gray off so I could escape.

“Then he shot her,” I say. “I heard the shot and I heard someone fall, and then I heard him calling her …” I can’t say it. Won’t say it. “He said something and kept going.”

“You’re sure she’s dead?”

“She must be. When he shot Aimee and she didn’t die, he …” I stop. “But Aimee was still talking, so he knew she was alive. Oh my God, what if Brienne—”

I run for the door, but he catches me as my bare feet slip in the blood.

“We need to go back,” I say. “I never checked. I never even saw her body. I just ran. Oh God, I just ran.”