The Masked Truth(66)

“I’m sorry,” she says, and looks as if she means it. “I’d never call you that. But what they’re saying about him …”

I brace myself. “What are they saying?”

“There’s some confusion, baby,” Mom says. “About exactly what happened.”

“They say he did it,” Sloane blurts.

“What?” I say.

Mom tries to hush her, to take some gentle and roundabout path to the answer, but I don’t want gentle or roundabout.

“They’re saying he did what?” I ask Sloane.

“All of it,” she says. “Killed those kids. Shot you. Stabbed you.”

I bolt upright so fast the pain leaves me gasping. “What? No. Just no. That’s—” I take a deep breath.

Speaking of crazy.

No, really, this is crazy.

Am I awake? I can’t be. Because this is absolutely nuts. How could they even think—

I can’t panic. I need to focus on facts. It’s just some confusion, and I can clear it up if I calm down.

“At least one of the kidnappers was killed,” I say. “Maybe two. There’s a body. Proof.”

Mom shakes her head. “No, there’s isn’t, baby.”

“What?”

“All they found were those poor kids and the two counselors.”

“And the gun,” Sloane murmurs. “They found Max with the gun.”

“A kidnapper’s gun. Which we took. If it was his, how the hell would he have gotten it in? There was a metal detector—” I shake my head sharply. “No, I’m not even dignifying this with discussion. I was there, Mom. What are they saying, that I had a breakdown? Hallucinated three kidnappers and a night of hell?”

“They say you’re confused,” she says softly.

“What? Confused? They honestly are claiming I imagined the whole thing? That’s … That’s …” I can’t even finish.

“They say he’s very persuasive. Schizophrenia often results in social issues—withdrawal and isolation—but every case is different, and this boy is very intelligent, very charming. He had a psychotic break and convinced you there were kidnappers in the building.”

“And I then had my own hallucinations? Because I saw them, Mom. Talked to them. Watched them kill …” I swallow and she reaches for me, but I pull back. “I was there. Max didn’t need to convince me of anything.”

“They say the repeated trauma may have resulted in a derealization. That means—”

“I know what ‘derealization’ means,” I snap, and maybe she doesn’t deserve that, but there have been times I felt as if my mom doesn’t quite get me. Never like this, though. Never like this.

“Derealization is an extreme symptom of PTSD,” I say. “Where reality seems unreal. Last night certainly did seem unreal, but derealization would not cause me to completely misremember what happened.”

“The doctor also suggested a possible fugue state.”

“Which is basically amnesia. In other words, they’re suggesting I experienced a fugue state due to the trauma and then allowed Max to fill in the blanks. That would mean I’m lying right now. That I don’t actually remember what happened—only what Max told me—and now I’m pretending I do remember it.”

“Of course not, baby. You’re just confused.”

“The word is ‘lying,’ Mom. Outright lying to protect Max. Why? Oh, wait. Let me guess. Because he’s cute.”

“Mmm,” Sloane murmurs, her first interjection since Mom started. “He’s a seven. That’s not cute enough to lie for.”

I glare at her. “No boy is cute enough to lie for.”

“Depends on the lie, but yeah, not for something like that. And definitely not for a seven.” When my glare sharpens, she says, “What? I’m agreeing with you.”

“No one is saying you’d lie for him because he’s cute, Riley,” Mom says. “If they did, I’d set them straight. I think they’re implying that you’re honestly confused, and you believe that you saw—”

“What I saw,” I say. “There’s no believe. A man shot me as I was running away with Brienne. Max wasn’t even there. He was there when the other guy stabbed me—Max was pulling him off before he killed me. That is the only violent thing Max did, and it was to protect me. It was hell in there, and whatever is wrong with Max, he kept it under control. He avoided violence, and that’s why I thought maybe there was abuse in his past. Now I realize he was avoiding it because he knows he might be prone to it, as part of his diagnosis. He kept it under control in every way, and I owe him my life.”

It’s a good speech. An impassioned defense. When I finish, I expect Mom to hug me and tell me that she believes me and we’ll sort this out. That it’s a mistake, and it’ll be fixed, and we’ll do it together. But she only stands there, shredding a tissue between her fingers.

“It may have seemed as if he saved you, baby—” she begins.

“Go.”

“Riley, I know this is tough—”

“Go!” I snarl the word and she falls back. “Get out of here. Now. Or I’m going to scream, and then we’ll see who they think is the crazy one. Maybe that’s the answer. Maybe I did it. Huh? Have they considered that? Makes more sense, doesn’t it? That can happen with PTSD. You lose it and go nuts, and poor Max, well, he hallucinates, so it was easy for me to convince him there were kidnappers.”