The Masked Truth(86)

At this point, he should quiz me to be sure I’m telling the truth. Where was he standing that day? What was he doing? But he’s not bright enough for that, and only says, “You’re wrong. Maybe you saw some guy who looked like me, but—”

“Fine. Play it that way. You don’t want to talk to me, you can give your alibi to the police.”

He goes even more still than before, if that’s possible. He’s breathing hard, struggling against a surge of panic.

“She found out, didn’t she?” I say. “Brienne. Somehow she learned you were involved, and she threatened to tell someone, and you somehow got her to that therapy session. She was supposed to die there with me.”

“What? No. I’d never— My sister? No. All she was supposed to do—” He stops short as he realizes what he’s saying.

“Cat’s out of the bag,” Max says. “Can’t stuff it back in now. If you try, we’ll be making that call to the police. What was Brienne supposed to do for you?”

“Talk to you,” he blurts to me. “Find out what you know. Yes, Brienne overheard something, and worse, they found out, because I was on the phone and she said something, and they heard her. They made me send her. Either she went to that therapy thing or I was in deep shit.”

“Sounds like you were in it already,” I say.

“It was a stupid, stupid thing. I promised some guys I’d get their product from the supplier. I was the delivery boy, that’s it. But I got caught, and it was enough dope that I was looking at twenty years. These guys promised to get me out of that. In return, I owed them this favor—standing guard while they pulled a hit. That’s all I did: stand guard. Just like I only carried the damned dope. But it just keeps getting worse, one thing leads to another, and now my sister’s in the hospital and—”

“Pulled a hit?” Max says.

River seems annoyed by the interruption. “It means they were hired to kill those people.”

“I watch enough American television to know what a hit is, thank you,” Max says. “But you’re saying that the murder of the Porters—the people Riley babysat for—was a professional assassination?”

“That’s what these guys do. The ones who got me off the drug charges. They kill people for money. The job was to off that guy and his wife. The guy’s business partner wanted him out of the way and didn’t want the wife getting his share.”





CHAPTER 32


I know why River is talking. Well, besides the fact that we’ve threatened to call the cops. Dad always said that was the difference between the hardened criminals and the people who just screw up really bad: the screwups feel guilt. They want to confess. They want to be told that it’s not so bad, and that you understand how it happened and they aren’t really terrible people.

“You didn’t have a choice,” I say. “You were looking at twenty years for the drugs, and if these men didn’t hire you to stand watch, they’d have hired someone else. You couldn’t have stopped them from killing the Porters.” Except, you know, by turning them in before they did it. “And the little girl wasn’t a target, right?”

“No, not at all,” he says emphatically. “It was the client’s fault she was there. He told the guys that she’d be with her aunt, and it’d just be the couple at home, and they weren’t supposed to be leaving for another hour. Then we get there, and the couple are already getting ready to leave, so they had to move fast. It wasn’t until the news hit that they realized the kid had been there all along.”

“Which is when they started worrying that I saw something.”

He nods. “One of the guys says you did see him. Out front.”

“I saw a gun. That’s all. If I got a look at the guy’s face, there would have been sketches released.”

“That’s not what they heard. They have contacts on the force who say the cops running the case claim you did get a better look. That you just don’t remember everything yet, but when you do, they’ll have enough to make a case.”

“Meaning if I die, your friends are free and clear.”

“They aren’t my friends.” He shifts, meeting my gaze, struggling for sincerity. “And if they planned to kill you, why would they want Brienne to talk to you?”

I know the answer. I’m not telling him, though, because once I do, I have a feeling I’ll get nothing more from him. Instead, I say, “Tell me about Aimee.”

His face screws up.

I resist the urge to sigh. “The woman who lived here? She was my therapist. She got me to enroll in that weekend, and I’m guessing she helped Brienne get in.”

“She’s with one of the guys. His girlfriend. That was how it started. She’s a therapist, and she works with kids sometimes, so they had her go after you to find out what you knew.”

Yes, Aimee had indeed “gone after me.” She’d contacted my mother directly, saying she’d read my story in the paper and she had experience with similar cases, and while she heard I was in therapy already, she’d like to offer her services if I needed extra help. It’d been perfect timing, because Mom had just fired my therapist, which Aimee might have heard through the grapevine.