The Masked Truth(78)

“No, go on. Please.”

He squeezes the bridge of his nose. “I don’t like to make excuses. To minimize my condition. I was going to say it’s not that kind of a voice, but how do I know? It might very well be. Or perhaps it’s evolving into that. All I know is there’s a voice. It’s mine. It’s always been there. It doesn’t tell me what to do. It just …” He shrugs. “It’s like me arguing with myself.”

“Doesn’t everyone do that?”

“Maybe. Perhaps mine is different. I just … I don’t want to deny that I have a symptom if I do. For now, I’ll just say that it’s never told me to do anything stupid. It’s usually telling me not to.”

“What was it telling you not to do this time?”

He tenses. She pulls back.

“Sorry,” she says. “I’m prying. We shouldn’t be talking about this anyway. We really do need to go, Max. If you do it now, you’ve only left a hospital against doctor’s orders. That’s not a crime. But as soon as they tell you you’re being charged …”

“It’s entirely another matter.”

“Yes. Will you come with me?”

He manages a quirk of a smile. “Are you offering to take me away from all this, Riley Vasquez?”

She returns the smile, a little too bright, relieved he’s back to himself. “I am. We’re breaking out of here. Sloane is all set with a distraction. As soon as you’re ready to go …”

He shoves his journal and pen into his jacket and pulls it on. “Ready.”





CHAPTER 29


As I told Max, getting us out of the hospital isn’t illegal. Of course, we can’t just stroll out, either, or I’m sure someone would summon the police to get those charges laid ASAP. So Sloane distracts the floor staff while we sneak out. Yes, Sloane is letting her little sister leave with a guy accused of mass murder. That took some work. While she calls bullshit on the charges, she wasn’t keen on me leaving the hospital with anyone, given my condition. I convinced her, though, and she was the one who’d offered to help with the staff and then keep an eye on Brienne, in case the killers came back.

Max’s boots and jacket are evidence now, but his mother had brought him replacements from home—another pair of Doc Martens and a vintage leather motorcycle jacket. Not that he’d had much use for either in the hospital, but I think she was trying to make him more comfortable, like my mother bringing the tattered stuffed marmoset my dad brought home from a training trip when I was little.

Max and I assume that once the detectives realize he and I are gone, they’ll put out a BOLO for a Hispanic teen girl walking with a blond guy. We split up and take side roads until we’re far enough away that it seems safe to regroup and talk.

I tell Max everything—from Lorenzo to Brienne’s brother. Then I tell him all of my research and my plans. He says nothing until I finish, and then, “That’s … brilliant.”

I look over sharply, thinking he might be, if not exactly mocking me, maybe a little amused. But he seems stunned. After a moment he says, “I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve this, Riley.”

“You saved my life.”

He goes quiet, his boots clomping on the sidewalk. Then he says, “I could have got you killed.”

When I look over, he’s facing straight ahead.

“You need to know that,” he says. “To understand. What I’m capable of.”

“I know you can have delusions. There was something in the articles about a violent incident back in England.”

He stiffens. I hurry on, “I’m guessing there’s some truth to that. From the way you tried to avoid fights in the warehouse, I thought maybe your father abused you …”

His head whips my way. Then he lets out a sharp laugh. “Excellent deduction, but no. My father can be a bit of a bastard, but he’s never raised a hand to me. Neither of my parents has. They say that’s one possible precipitating factor for schizophrenia—an abusive family life—but it isn’t the case with me. We have our issues, but they’re more issues of expectation. Only child. High-achieving parents. Formerly high-achieving son.”

“I’m sorry.”

A pained chuckle. “That sounded bitter, didn’t it?”

“Frustrated.”

He shrugs it off with a roll of his shoulders. Rather not talk about it, Riley. Let’s skip the therapy and stick to the plan, shall we?

But after a few more steps, he says, “The incident … what you read in the papers. I should explain.”

“Only if you want to.”

“No, but I ought to. It’s only right. So you understand what could happen.”

We round two corners before he continues. “I thought my best friend was possessed by demons. The twelve Malebranche from Dante’s Inferno, though the only one who’d talk to me was the leader, Malacoda.”

“That’s very … specific.”

“I’m very particular in my special brand of crazy.”

He glances over, seeming to expect a smile for that. Instead, I say, “You shouldn’t say that.”

“That I’m crazy?”

“You have schizophrenia. It’s not crazy.”