The Masked Truth(89)

CHAPTER 33


We untie River. Max uses River’s own switchblade to do it. He keeps the knife to use as a threat. I take Max aside.

“Let me have the knife,” I say. “If he needs to be threatened, I’ll do it. I know you hate—”

“Am I acting odd?” Max whispers. He gives a tired quirk of his lips. “Odder than normal?”

“Of course not. That isn’t why—”

“That should always be ‘why,’ Riley. If I pick up a steak knife at dinner, you need to ask yourself whether I’ve been acting normal.”

“That’s—”

“You can argue with me about it later. I know that’s not why you don’t want me having the switchblade, and I appreciate the thought. But I’m the one he’s frightened of. Ergo, I must play bad cop today.”

We’re heading out. River is in the lead. He drove, and his car is down the block. Max is right behind him. The knife is in Max’s pocket, but River seems in no hurry to test how quick he is on the draw. His concern is his sister.

Max makes River help me over the fence. I’m struggling to stay upright and my only goal now is not to collapse. My side is burning and my legs keep threatening to give out. We scale the fence, and we’re walking to the corner when two figures turn it.

I don’t react at first. It’s a residential neighborhood. Two men in suits have just come around the corner, and I’m focused on moving forward and watching River. It’s River who reacts, stopping short and turning fast, about to run, and Max sees that and he reacts. He grabs River by the back of the shirt and then someone says, “Thank you, Max,” and we all go still.

I turn to the two men, one now taking River as Max grabs my arm, and the second man says, “Uh-uh. If you’re going to run, Max, please don’t take Riley. I think you’ve gotten her into enough trouble.”

It’s Buchanan and Wheeler, the detectives.

“It’s over now, Riley,” Buchanan says to me. “He can’t hurt you.”

I protest, saying that Max never hurt me, that it’s all a mistake, that we have answers now, and River is telling me to shut up, just shut the hell up, and Wheeler takes him and Buchanan is on his radio, calling for backup. Max is looking left and right, as if trying to figure out what to do.

Should we run? Can we run? No. We can’t, and I don’t see the point. We may not have everything we need, but we have answers, and the police have River. Time to let this play out.

I glance at Max, and it’s as if he’s read my mind. He’s nodding and indicating we should go with them, that it’ll be all right. So we let Buchanan lead us to their unmarked car while Wheeler waits for a backup cruiser to take River.





MAX: ALACRITY


Alacrity: brisk and cheerful readiness.



To say that Max accepts the current situation with alacrity would be an exaggeration, but not, perhaps, as much as one might think, given that he is in the back of a police car, disarmed, cuffed and about to be charged with mass murder.

Riley argued about the handcuffs. He stopped her and accepted them with something approaching alacrity. The end is near. He’s certain of it now. The police have River, and the young man will, as they’ve discovered, talk without even an application of implied force. He got in over his head, and he desperately wants out, and he wants to protect his sister, particularly since it was his own stupidity that got her into this bloody mess.

When Riley recovers from the shock of Max being arrested, she immediately asks Detective Buchanan to put a security detail on Brienne. That’s where her mind goes—to the welfare of others—because that’s the sort of person she is. The sort who’d break him from a psychiatric ward and set out—two days after being shot and stabbed—to clear his name.

And she kissed him.

Well, more accurately, she allowed herself to be kissed by him. But she’d made it clear those kisses were not unwelcome, and even if he knew it shouldn’t lead anywhere—really shouldn’t—what matters is that for those few moments, she let him be something he never thought he could be again. A boy with a girl. A boy flirting with a girl, teasing a girl, kissing a girl and being kissed in return. A boy who fancies a girl being fancied in return.

Mmm, quite certain it goes beyond mere fancying, Maximus. You are indeed mad about the girl.

Doesn’t matter. Doesn’t matter one bit.

So when this is over, you’ll be fine with a handshake and a fare-thee-well?

No, but I’m hoping we can be friends.

He swears he hears the voice laughing, but he silences it. It doesn’t matter if this relationship goes nowhere—all right, it does, but he’ll survive—what matters is that it happened at all. That Riley knows what he is, understands it as best she can, which is to say that while she can’t fully comprehend the situation, she’s done her best to try, and that means even more than the kisses. She didn’t run in the other direction. Nor did she try to make him into some misunderstood and broken hero in need of a damsel to tell him he was perfect and wonderful and to hell with what the world said. Riley got it, eyes wide open, and she still let him kiss her. Still smiled for him. Still looked out for him. Still worried about him.

The detectives had parked in the driveway of a seemingly empty house for sale. They’re keeping this arrest low-key, which Max appreciates, as he appreciates the fact that Buchanan waited until they were at the car—out of sight of anyone—before bringing out the handcuffs.