The Masked Truth(61)

He tells the woman what he’s taking. She frowns.

“Are you sure?” she asks. “That’s usually prescribed for …” She glances at her partner, as if she might be mistaken.

“Schizophrenia,” Max says. “Yes.” And that’s another first. The first time he’s been forced to admit to his condition and hasn’t cringed as he said it. Hasn’t wanted to throw it like a bomb and run before he sees their reaction. He says it matter-of-factly. Yes, I have schizophrenia. Deal with it. I certainly need to.

“I’ll need my medication once we reach the hospital,” he says, rhyming off the dosage. “I was due to take it at ten, but obviously circumstances prevented that.”

“You’re overdue for your meds?” the man asks.

“Yes,” Max says. “Roughly three hours overdue, which only means I should take them as soon as possible, not that I’m in imminent danger of a full-blown psychotic break, so you can stop looking at me like that.”

Hmm, can you blame him, Max? Isn’t that what you yourself were worried about a few hours ago? That the clock would slip past ten and you’d be like Dr. Jekyll downing his potion?

No, he was understandably stressed, and he overreacted.

Good. I’m glad you see that.

Unfortunately, the paramedics—who one really thought would have known better—did not seem to agree. The woman looked concerned. The man seemed ready to reach for the nearest hypodermic to put Max down if he made any sudden moves.

“I’m fine,” Max says. “I escaped murderous kidnappers, got Riley to safety and called 911. I believe those are not the actions of someone experiencing a schizophrenic episode. Call ahead, have my meds ready, and we’ll all rest easier when I’ve taken them. But until then, like Riley, I can hold on.”

“You said you were held captive, but no ransom demands were made?” the man says, carefully.

It takes Max a second to get his meaning, but only a second, before he rolls his eyes and says, “Yes, I’m sorry. I was mistaken. I actually stabbed Riley. We were making out behind the building, having snuck out of therapy because, well, therapy is boring and making out is not. But then the next thing I know, I’m holding a knife and covered in blood, and she’s dying, but no worries, mate, I’ll just make up a story about kidnappers. I’m sure everyone will believe that.”

“There’s no need to be sarcastic,” the woman says.

“Yes, actually, there is.”

“You knew what I was implying, though,” the man says, his hand sliding to the side as if he’s wondering where the closest weapon might be.

“Yes, because I have schizophrenia and am well aware of exactly what the average person expects of me, and while I’d hope for better from medical professionals, you are merely paramedics. Couldn’t quite get the grades for med school, I presume?”

The man’s eyes narrow.

“You don’t appreciate the insult? After you suspected me of stabbing Riley? I’m not sure which is more egregious—the presumption that by dint of having schizophrenia, I clearly did this, or the presumption that I’m not bright enough to come up with a better story if I did. You did notice Riley open her eyes, right? She saw me and screamed in terror as she woke looking into the face of her would-be killer.”

“You can cut the sarcasm, kid.”

“Can I? Excellent. You stop looking at me as if I’m about to lop off your head, and I’ll stop being cheeky about it.” Max lifts his other hand to take Riley’s. “There. You can now see both my hands. If I make any sudden move, you have my permission to use that hypodermic you keep eyeing.”

“I’m not—”

“Enough,” the woman says. “I’m going to call ahead for your medication. We’ll be there in a couple of minutes, and the priority is Riley.”

“Yes,” Max says. “It is.” And he turns his back on the man and watches Riley for the rest of the trip.





MAX: SERENITY


Serenity: the state of being calm, peaceful and untroubled.



That’s what Max feels now. Serenity.

Riley is fine. All right, perhaps “fine” is an exaggeration—no one stabbed in the chest can truly be considered to be doing “fine.” But she is stable and listed in serious—not critical—condition, and the doctor felt confident enough to assure Max she would be fine. That is what counts, and so serenity is what Max feels, sitting in the waiting room, waiting for his mother or for permission to see Riley, whichever comes first.

He gave a brief statement when he arrived, and he’ll need to give a complete interview to the assigned detectives, but they are at the scene and will get to him soon.

Any earlier worry over how he might be treated has also passed. When the nurse from the psychiatric ward came to see him, he could tell by her expression that—given what she’d likely heard from the medics—she expected a raving lunatic ready for padded-room commitment. When she’d found him coherent and polite and calm, that wariness disappeared and she’d treated him as if he was any other patient. He’d got his meds. She’d brought clean clothing, and he’d answered her questions. She was kind and helpful, and when she left, she’d gone to get Riley’s doctor, who’d treated him with the same respect, giving him as much of an update on her condition as she could to a non-family member.