The Masked Truth(85)

“If I wanted it, I’m quite capable of initiating it.”

He smiles. “Even better.”

“Focus …”

“Completely focused.”

“On him.” I point at River.

“I don’t want to kiss him. I’m sure he’s a nice bloke—”

“We need to get him in the house.”

“Right.” He shucks his jacket. “I’ll do that.”

“Can you lift him?”

“I’m not thin; I’m wiry. It’s all muscle. Go on inside, prepare the way and ignore any humiliating grunts of exertion you hear from the yard.”

Despite his self-deprecating commentary, Max doesn’t seem to have much trouble hauling River in. I pull butcher’s twine off a shelf, bind River and then gag him with a dishcloth. Max is impressed, which of course he lets me know, with a steady stream of banter and flattery and flirting.

I’m trying to save his ass from jail, and he’s flirting. I could give him shit for that, but he knows how much trouble he’s in. He’s helping me, and he’s watching out for me, and he’s doing everything he should. It’s just … I don’t know how to describe it. There’s almost a giddiness to his goofing around, a relief. It’s not gallows humor. He seems, in a weird way, genuinely happy.

We’re not running for our lives anymore. We’re just solving a crime, and yes, his freedom may be at stake, but there’s a sense—a profoundly unsettling sense—that this is what he expects. That naturally he’ll be blamed for the murders. So he’ll leave the outrage to me, in an almost amused way, pleased that I care enough to be outraged on his behalf.

He certainly hopes we’ll find the answers he needs. Yet the overall situation is what he expects, as a guy with schizophrenia, so he might as well relax and enjoy himself.

While Max is prepared to do whatever I need, the one thing I won’t ask of him is violence. Rather than shake or slap River awake, I get ice water from the fridge and dump it on his head. He wakes with a start, realizes he’s bound and gagged, and fights madly … until he sees who captured him. Then he stops, his eyes narrowing.

“I’m going to remove the gag,” I say. “But if you scream, I’ll put it back in.”

His eyes narrow more, offended at the suggestion he’d scream.

“You broke into Aimee Carr’s house,” I begin. “You aren’t carrying anything, so you didn’t find what you were looking for. What was it?”

I pull out the dishcloth so he can speak, and he says, “I didn’t break in. I came to see her family. To say I was sorry about what happened.”

“Great. Where are they, then?” I wave around the empty house. “No, let me guess … You offered your condolences, and then you got tired, so they let you sleep on the couch while they left to make funeral arrangements.”

It’s only when Max snorts that River realizes I’m being sarcastic. Up to then he seemed relieved, as if I’d given him an excuse he could use.

“I could ask you the same,” he says after a moment’s thought. “You were breaking in when I was leaving.”

“No, I was coming to do exactly what you claim you were: offer condolences.”

“By just walking in?”

“I was about to knock when you pulled open the door.”

He hesitates, and he’s trying to reimagine the scene, to prove I’m lying, but I suspect in the shock of seeing me there he didn’t notice my hand was on the knob.

I continue, “You broke in. I want to know—”

“The door was open,” he says. “I walked in, and I called to see if someone was here.”

“He’s not going to give you a proper answer, Riley,” Max says.

When Max speaks, River jumps. He twists to stare at him. “You’re … You’re …”

“A random mate who just came along for the ride?” Max says. “I’m quite certain my photograph is in the paper, but that would require reading the news. A little beyond you, perhaps?”

“I know who you are,” River says.

Max sighs. “That was, I believe, the gist of what I was saying. You figured out who I was when I opened my mouth. What gave it away? The sudden stream of crazed ranting?”

“It was the accent,” River says, the sarcasm soaring over his head again.

Max rolls his eyes. “Yes, I’m the bloke who allegedly attempted to murder your sister. I could defend myself against the charge, but perhaps if you believe I’m guilty, you’ll answer Riley’s questions a tad more readily.”

River stares like he’s talking in a foreign language.

Max speaks slower. “Answer Riley or she’ll walk out and leave you with the schizophrenic and a kitchen full of sharp implements.”

River studies him as if he suspects this is not quite the terrifying prospect it should be. Then he squares his shoulders. “I was coming to speak to the family—”

“I know you were there when the Porters were killed,” I cut in.

Max’s chin shoots up, and he shakes his head hard, telling me I don’t want to go there. I focus on River, who has gone very, very still.

“I saw you that afternoon,” I say. “Just before the murders. I was in the front room upstairs and I looked down and saw you. I didn’t think anything of it. You were just some kid hanging around. Then I met you at the hospital with Brienne, and I knew there’s no way I just happened to be in a hostage situation with the sister of the guy who was randomly hanging out at the site of the last shooting I witnessed. You were the lookout.”