The Masked Truth(65)

“I’ll get right on that,” I say. “How much longer do I need to be here?”

The doctor starts explaining my injuries. After the first line I lift my hand. “Not to be rude, but can I just get an estimated time of departure?”

“We’d like to keep you for a few days,” she says. “There’s always the risk of infection, and you’ve been through a trauma—”

“Got it,” I say, and I really don’t mean to be rude, but there are more important things on my mind. “How’s Max?”

When silence answers, I boost myself up. “Max? The guy I came in with? He was with me, right?”

“He was,” Mom says in a very careful tone, one that starts my heart pounding.

“Is he okay? Did something happen? He was fine when I passed out.”

“He said to tell you he’s right as rain,” Sloane says.

I have to smile at that. I exhale and lean back into the pillow. “Okay, good.” One second of rest, and then I’m up again. “What about Lorenzo? He was one of the counselors.”

“He didn’t make it, baby,” Mom says. “But the girl did.”

“Girl?”

“Brienne, I think her name is?”

“Brienne?” I shoot up fast enough that I do feel pain stabbing through me. “She’s alive?”

“In critical condition and unconscious, but stable.” Mom looks at the doctor. “Is that right? She’s stable?”

The doctor nods and then says, “I should alert Detective Buchanan that Riley is awake.”

“Right,” I say. “The whole kidnapping thing probably needs a statement, huh?” I smile. No one else does. Not a laughing matter, and they’re right. I think of Aaron and Aimee and Lorenzo, of Maria and Gideon and Sandy, and my smile disappears as I slide back down in the bed. The doctor leaves.

Mom comes over and holds my hand. “It’s all right, baby. We’ll get this sorted out.”

Sorted out. An odd way to put it. I’m quiet for a minute. Then I look over at her. “I’d like to see Max.”

When she doesn’t answer, I say, “Duh, right. If I’ve been unconscious since Friday, he’s long since gone home.”

“Actually—” Sloane begins, but Mom cuts her off with a look.

I continue, “I know the police will want to get my statement before I see him, but I’d like to speak to him after, if that’s possible. I don’t know if he left a number or some way to get in touch—”

“We need to talk about him,” Mom says, and her grip on my hand tightens.

“About Max?” I catch her expression, the wariness there. “Did he say something? He can be a bit of a smart-ass. If he made some comment—”

“It’s not that.”

“He’s okay, though, right?” I push up again.

“Depends on your definition of okay,” Sloane mutters.

“Wh-what?”

“You do know he’s crazy, right?”

“Sloane!” Mom says.

“What? It’s true.”

“Sloane? Could you please step outside?”

My sister slouches into a chair instead.

“Mom?” I say. “What’s going on?”

“I’m not sure how much you know about this Max boy, Riley. About why he was in therapy.”

“He never said. There seemed to be, well, maybe some kind of abuse? I could be wrong.”

“Yep, you are,” Sloane murmurs, too low for Mom to call her on it.

“I know he’s on medication,” I say. “For a heart condition.”

“Not a heart condition,” Sloane says, and when Mom turns on her, she says, “Just spit it out, Mom. Before she totally freaks.”

“He has schizophrenia,” Mom says.

“Now you can freak,” Sloane says to me.

I barely hear her. I’m thinking of what Mom just said.

“Schizo …” I’m trying to remember everything I know about that. It’s not much. “That isn’t multiple personality, is it? I know ‘schism’ means split. But that’s not it.”

“It means he’s crazy,” my sister says.

“Sloane!” Mom says.

“What? The doctor said it means he hallucinates, hears voices, can’t think straight, is prone to violence, and can’t tell what’s real and what’s not. Classic definition of crazy.”

“Sloane?” Now it’s me saying it. “Can you step outside? Please?”

She looks honestly taken aback at that. Maybe even hurt.

“I’d like to speak to Mom,” I say. “Max saved my life, and I need to have a serious conversation about this without listening to you insult him.”

“I’m not trying to insult him,” she says. “I’m just telling you what the doctor says. Maybe ‘crazy’ isn’t the right word to use—”

“Would you use it for me?”

“Of course not. But you’re just having problems. He’s been diagnosed with a serious mental disorder.”

“Then call it that. Please. Because PTSD is a mental disorder, not a ‘problem,’ and I’d rather not worry about my sister calling me crazy.”