The Masked Truth(79)

“No? Then what is?” He looks at me, and any trace of good humor vanishes. “If schizophrenia isn’t crazy, then what exactly is crazy, Riley? I see things that aren’t there. Hear sounds that aren’t real. I thought my best friend was possessed, and I throttled him for it. Strangled him, trying to free him from the demon. If someone hadn’t caught me, I might have killed him, and please do not tell me I wouldn’t have done that, that I don’t have it in me, because I don’t know what I’m capable of anymore. I no longer have the luxury of saying I know what I am and what I will and will not do, and I never will again.”

He sees my expression and says, “Bloody hell,” and rubs his hands over his face. “I’m sorry, Riley. You didn’t deserve that little rant.”

“You’re frustrated. Understandably and—”

“Can we not talk about it?”

I’m silent for three heartbeats. Then I say, slowly but firmly, “You started this discussion, Max. I didn’t bring it up. I don’t know how you want me to respond, but clearly I’m not doing this right, and I’m sorry for that. But I’m not the one who raised the topic or is prolonging it.”

“Right.” He shoves his hands in his pockets. “Yes, of course.”

“You felt you had to explain, but you don’t want to talk about it.”

“Talk …” He yanks his hands out and runs them through his hair, and the band I gave him shoots free and bounces to the sidewalk as he mutters, “Talk, talk, talk.”

“Too much talk. I know.”

“No, Riley. That’s the thing. I do want to … I want to …” Hands back in his pockets as he mumbles a curse I don’t catch, and then, “Focus, focus.”

I look up at him. “I know I’m not doing what you want, Max, and I’m trying to figure out what that is, but I can’t. So you’re going to have to tell me. What do you want right now?”

He kisses me. I don’t see it coming. Well, yes, I see him moving forward, but we’re standing so close that by the time I see him move, he has my face between his hands and he’s lifting it into a kiss. A deep kiss, nothing that can be mistaken for the equivalent of a friendly hug or squeeze. This says more. So much more, and it’s everything I didn’t realize I wanted him to say until he’s kissing me and all I can think is, Yes. I like this. I really, really like this.

He backs up fast, his hands dropping. “No, not that. Sorry. Not that.”

“Um, I didn’t start …”

“Yes, I know. It was me. But you can’t let me do that.”

“Okay …”

“Stop me if I do that. Or if I do anything else. If it seems I might hurt you.”

“So … stop you if you try to kiss me or kill me?”

“Yes.”

I bite the inside of my cheek then. I have to, because I want to laugh at that, at the absurdity of it, but his expression is perfectly serious.

“What I’m trying to say, Riley, is that you can’t trust me. Yes, I’m on my meds.” He reaches into his pocket and there’s a small collection of pills in his palm. “My mum gave me extras, as a security blanket. She knows I worry. That may seem as if it’s enough. I’m on the meds, and I’m as level as it gets for me, and I’ve never done anything while I’ve been on this dose, but that doesn’t mean I couldn’t. I’m eighteen. I’ve only been diagnosed a year. My condition is still changing. I’m still changing. I need you to be aware of that and to tell me if I start acting odd.”

When I don’t reply, his lips twitch in the barest smile. “Yes, odder than telling you to stop me if I try to kiss or kill you. For me, that’s a normal level of odd.”

“Okay.”

He eases back and studies my expression. “Do I scare you, Riley?”

“No.”

He nibbles his lip as he keeps studying me. “I don’t want to, but I think I should. I think it’s safer for you if I do.”

“You don’t scare me, Max. I understand that I need to be careful around you. I understand that I need to be watchful. I understand that if you do something that worries me, I need to get the hell out of your way and not tell myself I’m overreacting, even if I am.”

“Exactly!” He throws his arms around me in a hug. “That’s exactly it.”

I look up at him as he embraces me. “Should you be doing this?”

He sighs. “Probably not.”

He backs away, and we both break into a laugh. He runs a hand through his hair and then stops short and looks about the ground for the band.

“Here,” I say, peeling another from my wrist.

“No, got it.” He retrieves the fallen band, and then pauses and takes the one I’m offering, putting it onto his own wrist with “Backup.” His cheeks flush, and I’m not sure why, but it’s gone in a blink, as he fastens his hair again and waves at the sidewalk, saying, “Shall we?” and we continue on.

I have a plan. It is not a great one. I’m sure it could be, if I were a detective. Or a criminal. The truth is that I’m not equipped to solve this mystery. Sure, I can pull the “I’m a cop’s daughter” routine, but that only gets me one step down a very long path. I have no experience interrogating witnesses. No right to interrogate them. Certainly no skills for either convincing or forcing them to answer my questions. I don’t know how to pick a door lock or search an apartment or break through laptop security.