The Masked Truth(90)

They’re in the car now. Buchanan is saying that someone spotted them from the papers and called it in, but Max isn’t paying much attention. It doesn’t matter how they got there—they have him now and all that’s important is that Riley won’t get in trouble for leaving the hospital with him. He’s saying nothing about that yet, because if he tells the detective this is his fault, she’ll jump in with the truth, and he doesn’t want that. He’ll take the blame when she’s not there to seize it for herself.

Buchanan is in the passenger seat, on the radio, calling the hospital about Brienne. He doesn’t seem convinced she’s in danger, but he’s not taking any chances.

Max’s hands are cuffed in front of him and he’s resting his fingertips against Riley’s leg. He would talk to her, reassure her, but she’s intent on what Buchanan’s saying, so he limits his reassurance to that touch, and when he shifts, she absently reaches over and squeezes his hand, and that feels … it feels like the first time he held a girl’s hand—when he reached out and braced himself, ready to pretend he’d only accidentally brushed hers, but she’d taken his and it was like winning top place in class and scoring the winning goal all in one. Only this, this is better, because that had been some girl whose name he can’t even remember, just a girl he’d somewhat fancied, at an age when the girls began fancying the boys and the boys weren’t quite ready but felt as if they ought to. That was just a girl. Riley is not just a girl. She is …

Tell me again how you’re going to walk away, Max.

We’ll still be—

Friends. Ah, yes, of course. And that’ll be enough.

It has to be, because he doesn’t get the rest. Not anymore. Can’t ask for that, can’t expect that, might never have that again, because the risk is too great, and if he cares about someone, then he cannot allow that—

He cuts himself off, his breath coming so fast that Riley looks over sharply, alarmed. He forces a smile and squeezes her knee. She doesn’t buy it, leaning in to whisper, “Are you okay?”

“Right as rain.”

That makes her roll her eyes and makes her smile too.

It isn’t just about him. He shouldn’t hope for more with Riley, because she’s dealing with her own problems, and what she needs—what they both need—is a friend.

The car moves and they both jump, looking over their shoulders to see the trunk open. It shuts and Wheeler walks to the driver’s side and gets in without a word.

“All set?” Buchanan asks.

Wheeler only grunts.

“You’re the chatty one, aren’t you?” Max says, and he’s being perfectly friendly, but Wheeler fixes him with a look, and Riley tenses and he knows she’s thinking he shouldn’t have said anything, so he smiles and says, “All right, then. Take me to your leader. Or your station, as the case may be.”

“You don’t seem terribly concerned, Max,” Buchanan says as Wheeler backs out the car. “I’ve heard that’s a symptom, though.”

“Inappropriate affect,” Max says. “It is indeed a symptom. However, it’s not an explanation. Not today.” He smiles. “Today I’m just relieved. We have our answers, and I’m quite certain this whole mess can be cleared up by teatime.”

“Huh. Isn’t that another symptom? Delusions?”

Riley’s lips tighten, and he knows she wants to tell them to grow up and act like professionals, and when she says, “I don’t believe sarcasm is in order, Detective,” Max smiles, not only at the comeback but at the way he predicted it.

Because he knows her. And she knows him.

And oh how happy you will be, fa-la-la-la-la.

Bugger off.

There’s no rancor in the curse. He smiles when he says it, if only in his head, and that silences the voice.

“We know what happened that night,” Riley says. “We figured it out.”

“Did you now? What did you figure out?”

“It was hit men.”

The two detectives look at each other … and burst out laughing.

“It was,” she says. “The Porters were killed by hit men hired by Mr. Porter’s business partner. They set up the therapy camp to kill me, because I was the witness.”

“That’s kind of overcomplicating things, isn’t it?”

“There’s more to it than that. They planned another hit in the same place: Aaron Highgate. They set it up through Aimee, who was dating one of them. I’ll tell you the whole story at the station. River Ruskin can back us up.”

“How much did you pay him for that?” Buchanan asks.

Temper sparks behind her eyes. Max squeezes her leg, telling her not to worry, these are just two idiots who don’t have the power to put him in jail for more than a day or two. He knows how this works. He’ll explain everything to his lawyer, who will talk to the Crown attorney—or whatever it’s called in America. It’s the Crown that lays charges, not the detectives. This is just a frustrating obstacle.

He leans in and tells her as much, and she nods, knowing he’s right.

“What poison is he whispering in your ear now, Riley?” Buchanan says.

“The truth,” she says.

“The truth is that your boyfriend is a psychotic killer who was obsessed with you and murdered six people because of it. But hey, now he’s got you, so it was all worthwhile, wasn’t it, Max?”