The Masked Truth(81)

I nod and try to back away again, but she catches my arm. “Some people may blame you. Because of what he said. But you must remember he is sick. Not in his right mind.”

I realize now what she means. “Because of what he wrote in his manifesto. That he wanted to kill me.”

“Yes, it was the ravings of a sick child, and if anyone is to blame, it is that therapist of his.” She crosses herself. “I should not speak ill of the dead.”

“Aimee, you mean?”

“It was in her notes. She knew about him, how he felt about you, and she did nothing.”

“She wrote about me in Max’s therapy notes?”

“That is what the detectives told my Lorenzo’s wife. She told me afterward, poor girl. It was in this Aimee girl’s notes from their private sessions. The boy was in love with you, and he was angry because you did not return his affections. The girl worried he might become violent, and then she let him come to an overnight camp with you?” Grief and anger cloud the old woman’s face. “What was she thinking?”

I should be asking myself the same thing. But I’m not. Because I think I know the answer.





CHAPTER 30


Max waits around the side of the building. We perch on an empty bike rack.

“I’m going to ask you a question,” I say, “and no matter how much it may seem absolutely none of my business, there is a point to it. An important one.”

“All right.”

“It’s about your sessions with Aimee. I know you didn’t talk in the group sessions. I’m guessing you had private ones?”

“Once a week.”

“What did you talk about?”

He shifts his weight. “The usual.”

“Max … I’m not prying. There’s a reason, and I need to hear your answer so I can form an unbiased opinion on something.”

“The usual means exactly what one might expect from therapy with an eighteen-year-old schizophrenic. They start by *footing around the ‘so, any violent and paranoid impulses lately’ question. I’ve learned to get that out of the way in the first five minutes. It’s rather like confession. Listing all those impulses you might have over the course of daily life, like cursing at someone who cuts you off in traffic. That’s as far as it goes with me since the meds got straightened around, and there’s precious little of that. I’d need to actually be allowed to drive a motor vehicle to curse someone out for cutting me off. Or be permitted to leave the house on my own.”

“You aren’t allowed to leave the house?”

He makes a face. “Sorry. Flash of petulance there. It happens. Just ignore it. So I would make my tiny confessions and then we’d discuss my feelings. Because, really, there is so much variety to discuss. One day I’m bitter and angry, and the next I’m thanking the good Lord for allowing me such a marvelous opportunity to test my resilience.” He pauses. “And that was bitter and angry sarcasm. Now you see why I don’t like to discuss my life these days. Because it hardly shows my best side.”

“I don’t blame you.” I pause. “Sorry. I know you don’t want me saying that.”

He passes me a wry smile. “To be perfectly honest, I rather like hearing it. Much better than what I hear in here”—he taps his head—“which tells me to stop whining about my lot in life and deal with it. Which would be lovely, except … I want to deal with it. Stiff upper lip and all that. But it’s not exactly working out so far. Now, back on task. Aimee. Lovely girl. Rubbish therapist. She’d tell me that I have the right to be bitter and angry, but the difference when you say it is that I feel you mean it. She’s just reciting what she’s been taught. So that was it, really. How do you feel about that, Maximus? I feel shitty. Absolutely shitty. As you should, Maximus. Now, let’s explore those feelings of shittiness some more.” He rolls his eyes. “That was the extent of it. Feelings, feelings and more feelings with absolutely no attempt to solve the core issues causing those feelings.”

I nod. “Okay. Another question, then. This one is going to sound weird and random—”

“You don’t need to keep explaining, Riley. I know there’s a point to everything you’re asking.”

“Did you ever talk to Aimee about me?”

That startles him, and he rocks forward. “What?”

“Did you ever, in any context, talk to Aimee about me?”

He seems ready to duck the question, even more uncomfortable than when I asked about therapy. Then he says, “She brought you up. A few times, actually. The first … She said I was ‘watching’ you.” He air-quotes “watching.” “I didn’t like the way she said it, as if I were stalking you, and I let her know that.”

“What did you say?”

He shifts and looks off into the distance.

“You don’t have to answer, obviously,” I say. “I can tell you what she said, and you can tell me what happened—”

“And then it will sound as if I’m tailoring my answer to hers, which doesn’t help you at all. She said I was watching you. I said if I seemed to be, then it was simply that’s where my gaze landed when I was daydreaming, and yes, I may look your way now and then, but you’re a pretty girl and it’d be odder if I didn’t.”