The Masked Truth(60)

“That would be the king of the United Kingdom,” Max says. “There hasn’t been a king of England since 1700.”

The man screws up his face. “What?”

“Correcting your ignorance, which, yes, I can do, only minutes after being nearly incoherent with worry. It’s a special talent. It does not mean I’m any less worried, but simply that I can rein it in to tell you what you need to know. Which I have done. If you require more, you may follow me to the hospital.”

“May I, your lordship? No, you’ll follow me, into the back of my cruiser, and you’ll—”

Max collapses. He times it so one of the paramedics just happens to be glancing his way. The woman races over as he sits up with one hand to the side of his head.

“Wh-what just happened?” he says.

“That’s what I was going to ask,” she says, shining a light in his eyes.

“I-I don’t know. I’ve been feeling woozy, but I didn’t want to take you away from Riley.” He starts pushing to his feet. “I hit my head when we were inside. I should probably see a doctor. But you go on with Riley. She’s the …” He staggers and the paramedic catches him. “She’s the important one. I’ll be fine.”

The constable snorts. “Of course you will be. Once you recover from that pratfall.”

Not so gormless after all. Good show, old chap.

It doesn’t change anything, though. Max fakes disorientation well enough that the paramedic insists he ride along so she can check him out. The constable protests. She snaps at him that he can follow if he wants, but she’s taking Max. She helps him to the ambulance. He resists all urges to smirk back at the constable.

Big of you, Maximus.

It is, isn’t it?

As they reach the ambulance, though, any surge of self-satisfaction ebbs fast, because that’s when he sees Riley. She’s pale and still, hooked up to the IV, with an oxygen mask over her mouth and nose. He scrambles into the back to get beside her, ignoring the male paramedic’s “Whoa, slow down there.” He sits beside her and takes her hand. It’s cool to the touch, and his gaze flies to the monitors, and he reassures himself with their steady blips.

“How is she?” he says. “How deep did the knife go? Did it hit anything? It didn’t seem that bad and then—”

“Slow down,” the male paramedic says again.

“Just … is she all right? Will she be all right?”

“She’s stable,” the woman says. “That’s all we can say. Now let’s take a look at you.”

He shakes his head. “I’m fine.”

She eyes him. “So you were faking it to catch a ride?”

He glances at the window, judging how far they are from the scene. Not far enough.

“I did feel woozy, and I did hit my head. It’s just not critical. She is.”

He waits for them to say Riley isn’t critical. When they don’t, his heart hammers louder than her bleeping monitor. He adjusts his grip on her hand so his thumb is on her pulse. It’s strong enough. He keeps it there, for added reassurance.

“The oxygen mask,” he says. “Is that just a precaution or did it nick her lung? Is she breathing all right?”

“She is for now.”

Max shifts. Not the answer he wants.

Tell me she’s fine. Just fine. I’m overreacting.

They say nothing more.

He leans forward and frees strands of her hair caught under the mask.

“She’s stable,” the woman says finally. “We really can’t say more, but so far she’s fighting and holding on. That’s what counts. You’ve got a tough girlfriend.”

“She’s just a friend.”

You’re holding that hand pretty tight, Max.

For support.

And you kissed her, didn’t you?

Her eyelids flutter. He holds his breath, certain he’s imagining it, but the paramedics both move, the woman saying, “Riley? Can you hear me?”

Riley’s eyes half open. Her gaze swings around, passing the woman bending over her and coming to rest on Max. She smiles and squeezes his hand, and that smile is for him, only for him, as if there’s no one else there. She looks for him, and she smiles for him, and it’s as if he’s been wound tight enough to snap, and now that cord is cut and he wants to just collapse there, with her.

Her eyes close again. The paramedic tries to rouse her, to ask questions, but she’s faded back to sleep. Max checks the monitor. Her pulse and her heartbeat continue as before. Still strong. Or strong enough.

“Let’s check you out,” the woman says to Max.

He nods and lets her shine her light in his eyes as he points out the spot where he supposedly bumped his head. She asks about any medication he’s on. He almost says, “None,” because he’s spent his life answering that question with “None.”

No health issues. No medication save the occasional round of antibiotics, and even that was rare, he being an only child, not subject to those round-robin infections and viruses that plagued his sibling-cursed friends.

No issues. No medication.

But that isn’t true anymore. Never will be again, and this is, perhaps, the longest he’s gone in the past year without thinking of his condition. An entire hour that he’s forgotten he has schizophrenia, forgotten he’s in rather desperate need of his meds.