The Masked Truth(56)

“Max? You’re scaring me.”

“I know, I know.” He rubs his fingers over his closed eyelids. “I don’t want to. Can’t. Need to keep it together. Don’t want you to think I’m … But I am, right? I am, and there’s no denying it. No pretending I’m not. Just another boy, for a while. A boy with a girl. Lovely fantasy, but it doesn’t last. Can’t last. Isn’t real.”

“Max?” My pulse races, and I’m trying not to freak out. That’s what he’s doing. Freaking out. I need to pull him back.

He goes still, his fingers against his eyelids. I open my mouth to tell him to relax, just relax, we’re almost out, but his eyes fly open and he says, “Tell me a secret.”

“What?”

“Tell me a secret I wouldn’t guess. If I could guess it, then that means I’m only imagining you saying it and—”

“I’m glad Darla Porter moved away,” I blurt.

He goes still and his brow furrows.

“The little girl whose parents died,” I say. “She went to live with her grandparents in Arizona, and I was glad, because it means I don’t have to ever see her again. I’m certain she hates me, blames me for what happened, for not saving her parents, so I’m glad she’s gone, and I know that’s cowardly—”

I’m babbling, barely hearing what I’m saying, and then he’s got my face between his hands and he’s kissing me. Just a press of his lips to mine, stopping me mid-sentence, and then he backs up, but barely, still close enough for me to see nothing except his eyes. His thumbs rub against my cheeks, wiping away tears I didn’t know were there.

“I won’t say she doesn’t blame you,” he says. “Everyone must tell you that, and it doesn’t help, does it?”

I shake my head.

“It doesn’t help, because they don’t know if she does or doesn’t, and neither do I and neither can you. But I do know you aren’t to blame. And I do know that doesn’t really help either, despite everyone saying it. I wish you didn’t feel that way, Riley, but I understand why you do.” He gives me a quick embrace, arm’s-length so he doesn’t hurt me. Then he moves back. “Thank you. I’m sorry that I … I stumbled a bit there.”

“We all do sometimes.”

He nods. “Some of us more than others. But thank you for pulling me back. And thank you for being so good to me.”

“You deserve it. Most of the time, anyway.”

He chuckles as we part, and I try to cover another grimace of pain as I say, “But you owe me a secret after this.”

I’m teasing, but when I say it, his expression falters, eyes clouding, and I start to make light of it, ensure he knows I was kidding, but then he says, “I do.”

“You don’t have to. I was just—”

“No, fair’s fair. And I should, anyway. After all this. Best to get it out in the open, though it might be a little more than you expect.”

I think of his father, of what I suspect. “I might already know …”

I trail off and wish I hadn’t said that, because I don’t think he’d want me speculating, but instead of withdrawing, he smiles, and this is a new smile, even better than the last. This one stops me in my tracks. It’s a little bit uncertain, but mostly it’s pleased with an undercurrent of something like hope, cautious hope, and it’s like ripping off a mask and seeing what’s under it, that bottom layer, and I stare at him for a moment, and when I pull my gaze away, I can feel my cheeks heating, because I see that smile, and there’s a little bit of me that doesn’t want to walk out the door now, that knows everything will change once we do, and it’s not just that I want to stay in touch, that I want to talk. It’s more. And I’m afraid that after we walk out that door, I’ll never see that smile again.

I turn away, but I move too fast, and I gasp and stumble, and when I go down, I cry out. I can’t help it. The pain. Oh God, the pain.

Max drops beside me, helping me up as he’s cursing and saying, “What the hell am I doing? Not the time for me to lose it. You don’t need that; you need a bloody paramedic.”

“There isn’t one out there.”

He shakes his head. “There must be. I saw someone coming around that corner, and I panicked. My fault. Being daft. The police are out there. They have to be. They’ve just withdrawn. Now let’s get you …”

He’s opening the door, and he trails off, and I think he hears Gray. But he’s looking to the side, and I follow his gaze, and I let out a yelp, my hand flying to my mouth as I do.

I see what he does and there is a moment when I feel what he must have, earlier. That this is not real. Cannot be real. And here is the proof. Here is …

It’s Sandy.

Sandy’s body. Slumped over a box. A hole in her forehead. A perfect hole in her forehead.





CHAPTER 21


“Th-they killed …” I can’t finish. “Predator. He took her to the front door. And then he … But that’s not …” I turn. “Max?”

Now I’m the one pleading, wordlessly, for reassurance. Tell me I’m seeing things. That it’s all too much, and I’ve snapped. But the look on his face says otherwise.