The Masked Truth(77)

“Yes, it is terribly coincidental, which is why I won’t be at all surprised if the police find a link between those two murders and the ones on Friday night.”

His mother says nothing.

“That link is not Riley,” he says. “Really, Mum? What are you suggesting? That she just happens to have undiagnosed schizophrenia and experienced a psychotic break while I was with her … and then used my schizophrenia to make me doubt what I saw? So when Brienne wakes up and gives the same story, does that mean she has schizophrenia too? Or no, wait, it means we’ve both been seduced by Riley’s charms. Fallen under her sway.”

“I’m not accusing anyone—”

“No, you just suspect I’m lying. Maybe I really did do something. Or maybe I’m covering for Riley. Your son isn’t merely schizophrenic, he’s a pathological liar.”

“That is not what I said at all, Maximus. I do not believe for one moment that you are responsible for this. I was merely saying that if you did anything—at all—you need to tell us, because otherwise, if these detectives find out, it’s a slippery slope.”

“Slippery slope. Huh. How about this: if my lawyer wants to speak to me, please have him speak to me directly. I am legally an adult. Sending my mother to relay his concerns is insulting. I expected better of you.”

She doesn’t like that. She argues, of course, but the accusation has the desired effect, sidetracking her until she has to leave.

Then he’s alone in his room. Writing again, for the first time in a year. It’s not his usual fare—the wild and blood-soaked fantasies that everyone thought were so clever and so original … before the writer was diagnosed with the crazy bug.

No, Max is writing the story of a girl, one who may bear a marked resemblance to Riley Vasquez. It’s a fantasy story, of course, set in some make-believe land where his heroine’s father has been murdered by bandits and then she goes into service, only to see her employers brutally murdered. All right, perhaps it is not quite a bloodless tale … He’s leaving the actual killings out for now, in case the journal is found. In the current scene, the girl has just been accused of her employers’ deaths and has set out on a quest to prove—

The door behind him creaks open. He keeps writing. Footsteps tap behind him. Then a voice at his ear, whispering, “You need to get out of here.”

He slaps the book shut and gets to his feet, turning to face Riley. “What?”

She talks fast. Almost too fast. He should be accustomed to the American accent after a year stateside, but let’s face it, he hasn’t exactly led an active social life in the past year.

Really? And whose fault is that?

Mum, I think I need to get out for a while.

Splendid! Let’s go to a show.

That’s not what I mean. I was thinking I could take a class. Just one. To keep me in the swing of things. For when I start uni.

Silence.

I am going to go to uni, Mum. As soon as the meds are sorted. I’ll take a half load the first year and see how it goes. The best way to prepare, though, would be to start now with one course.

Not yet, Max.

Then when?

Soon.

I am eighteen. I can bloody well—

Don’t use that language with me. You may be an adult, but if you need to throw that in my face, you’re not acting like one, are you? You are temporarily under my care, despite your age, and—

“Max?” Riley says.

“Yes, I’m listening.”

Which he is, even if he’s struggling to keep up, and it’s not just the accent and how fast she’s talking—it’s what she’s saying. He cannot believe what she’s saying.

Really, Max? Really? No, you believe it just fine. It’s exactly what you feared.

Reality: the world or the state of things as they actually exist, as opposed to an idealistic or notional idea of them.

This was his new reality. A world where, when anything went wrong, the blame would land squarely on his shoulders because he was, certifiably, crazy. Any act of violence that involved him could be laid directly at his feet—the perfect walking-and-talking scapegoat. He could whine and moan about that, but he’d already proven it wasn’t a baseless accusation, hadn’t he? After what he’d done to Justin?

This was what he has to look forward to: a life spent waiting to be accused of exactly this. A life spent knowing that when the accusation comes, it might very well be valid. That he might very well have done it.

Which was no life. No life at all, and furthermore, not one he cared to live. And that—that—was his choice, wasn’t it?

Max?

Nothing. Never mind. Go away.

“What?”

He jumps, sees the look on Riley’s face and realizes it was her saying his name, not his inner voice, and worse, he’d replied aloud.

Bloody hell, bloody hell, bloody hell.

“Sorry,” he mumbles. “I didn’t mean— That wasn’t for you. It’s …”

He realizes what he’s saying and sees the look on her face. Oh, yes, that’s better, Max. So much better.

“Voices,” she murmurs, and she nods abruptly, as if processing this as fact and moving on. “I know that’s a symptom, so okay.”

“It’s not … I don’t …” He takes a deep breath. “It’s not really like that. It’s …” He trails off and shrugs. “Never mind.”