The Masked Truth(80)

Max knows none of the above either, because we’re a couple of middle-class teenagers whose idea of rebellion is blowing off a first-aid course to sneak into a summer concert. When I admit that, Max tops my badassery by confessing that he once stole a punt from Oxford to take a girl for a river ride. Or that’s what he told her, when the truth was that he’d gotten permission to take it, because his mother was a prof there, and he certainly wasn’t going to risk his own future admission by doing something “daft” just to impress a girl.

On top of our complete lack of experience, we also have situational factors to contend with. Namely, that I’ve been knifed and shot, meaning I can’t exactly run, jump or fight. And Max is wanted by the police for six murders, and soon every cop in the city will be looking for him.

Still, I have a plan, even if it’s not quite as impressive as I might like. There are people I want to speak to. With any luck, those conversations will lead to links and clues we can pursue.

I’m convinced now that Lorenzo was in on the scheme. Max agrees with my reasoning. If Lorenzo was part of it, then the most likely motivation would be money. Through his wife, I might be able to confirm that, maybe get a sense of his plan for the money—we were just about to move into a new house—or proof they were in serious financial straits—he was having such a hard time, struggling to pay his mother’s cancer bills.

The first stop on my list is Lorenzo’s apartment, where Max waits outside. At this point, I’m not a suspect in anything, and while Lorenzo’s wife might be surprised to see me on her doorstep, she’ll almost certainly be too deep in grief to have paid much attention to reports on my condition. I’ll tell her I was just released from the hospital and came by to offer my condolences.

It’s a pretty good plan. And it goes wrong the moment Lorenzo’s apartment door opens and the woman standing there is older than my grandmother.

“Is Mrs. Silva in?” I ask.

She shakes her head and starts to close the door. When my hand shoots out to stop her, I think I startle both of us. She falls back with a squeak and I do too, and she nearly slams the door before I can grab the knob.

“I’m sorry,” I say quickly. “I know this is a bad time, but—”

She cuts me off with a stream of Spanish so fast that I have to struggle to catch the gist of it. I claim I’m fluent in the language, and I am … compared with most kids in my school, who know only enough to successfully order beer and margaritas on a trip over the border.

This woman thinks I’m selling something and says that her grandson has died and if I don’t let go of this door she’s calling the police.

“Soy Riley Vasquez,” I say quickly, introducing myself. Then I slow my Spanish, picking my words with care, knowing how bad my accent is. “I was with your grandson. I’m one of the survivors.”

Her eyes round when I give my name. When I say the rest, she reaches out and pulls me into a hug, and I get another string of rapid-fire Spanish in a very different tone as she pats my back and then tugs me inside.

“You were with him,” she says, still in Spanish. “You were the last to see him.”

“I-I—” I’m not ready for this. Damn it, I should have been ready. Of course his family would want to know about the end. Did he say anything? Exactly what happened? Because the police never tell you everything, and you so desperately want to know.

Was someone with you when you died, Dad? Did they hold your hand? Did you have any last words?

These are the important things. These are the things no one tells you, because everyone is focused on the crime, on solving it, on fixing the damage. Only it isn’t justice you want right then. It’s not even justice you want eighteen months later. It’s comfort. It’s knowing that he didn’t die alone. That he didn’t linger in pain. And I can say neither of those things about Lorenzo.

But I have to say something, and it doesn’t matter if I think he was an accomplice to six murders, because that has nothing to do with this woman. She deserves better.

I want to lie. I want to say that I was there when he died and he went quickly. But if she’s heard anything different, then I’ll only make it worse.

So I tell her that he managed to escape after he was shot, and I found him and talked to him, and his concern was not for himself but for getting us kids out. That I held his hand and I talked to him but he wanted us to go, to escape, and that we tried as hard as we could to find a phone so we could get him help.

She nods as I talk, and then she hugs me, and I know I’ve said the right thing and I will not feel guilty that it’s not entirely the correct thing. It’s true. Every word. That’s enough.

“You tried to save him,” she says.

“Yes.”

“And he tried to save you.”

“He did. Me and Max.”

She stiffens, and I realize I should have left Max out of it.

“I-I should go,” I say. “I just wanted to give my condolences—”

“Have they arrested the boy?”

“Max? I don’t know.”

“It is not your fault. I hope you understand that.”

Now I’m the one tensing. Before I can speak, she says, “The boy is sick. They say it is a mental illness. So I cannot blame him. I will pray for his soul and pray that I am able to forgive him.”