The Masked Truth(91)

“I didn’t kill anyone,” he says. “Which we will prove, so save your breath—”

“Did you read the manifesto, Riley?”

She says, “I heard enough about it to know it’s fake, which computer forensics will confirm.”

“And the supporting evidence? The other documents we found?”

“What other documents?” Max asks, but Riley says, “Whatever they are, it’s the same thing. Forgeries.”

“Oh, really?” Buchanan twists to face Max. “Is that right, Max? Those suicide notes were fake? Because they sure looked real to me.”

Max imagines his mouth opening. He imagines words coming out. Words like I don’t know what you’re talking about. Only that doesn’t happen. He sits there, trying to unhinge his jaw. Trying to open his mouth. Trying to get words out. And he just sits there, unable to find breath, much less words.

“Suicide notes?” Riley says, and he struggles to decipher her tone. He studies her face, and he picks her words apart, sifting and sorting madly. Is that disbelief? Confusion? Shock and disgust?

Say something, Max. Open your bloody mouth and say something.

Lie to her.

“Rough drafts,” Buchanan says. “Four of them, locked away under password protection—which, by the way, Max, is only going to keep your mother from seeing them.” He turns to Riley. “Your boyfriend started four suicide notes in the past month, saying how he couldn’t go on, and all the usual teen-angst bullshit.”

“Teen angst?” Max says, and that’s when the words come, not when he wants them, not the ones he wants, but this—two words on a bubble of rage—and once they’re out, the rest come, even as that voice inside screams for him to shut up, just shut the hell up.

“I spent my whole life being told how much promise I had, how much potential, how bloody brilliant I was, how bloody talented I was and how I could make anything of my life. And now? Now? Now the most I can hope for is that I don’t end up wandering the streets, yelling at strangers and ranting about the end of the world. Forget university. Forget a decent career. Forget a wife and kids and a house in the country and everything else that is the bare minimum of what I could have expected from my life before. I get a lifetime of existing and being a bloody success if I manage that without buggering it up. So yes, I wrote those letters, because that’s my plan B. It’s not plan A yet, but that’s no one’s business except my own.”

When he finishes, Buchanan slow-claps, and that’s the worst of it, the most humiliating and horrible of it. Max is straining against his seat belt, feeling as if he’s spewed the most secret and shameful part of his life … and Buchanan slow-claps. Then Wheeler turns from the steering wheel and smirks at him, and that smirk … that smirk …

For a split second, Max tumbles down the rabbit hole. He sees that smirk and it’s not even the smirk—it’s Wheeler’s eyes. He sees something in his eyes and images flash—other eyes, other smirks, hidden behind a mask, but knowing they’re there. The images come fast and hard. A laugh. A chuckle. A sarcastic word. A sneer. Then gunfire and blood and—

“Are you done, Max?”

Max stares at Wheeler, but the man is facing forward again, driving. He looks over at Buchanan.

“Hello,” Buchanan says. “Are you stepping off your soapbox, boy?”

Max blinks.

He’s losing it. Something’s wrong. The meds—

No, the meds are fine. This is what we call stress, Maximus.

Which is one of the problems with medication. It’s not an impenetrable shield. The madness can still creep through. He can still snap if the pressure is too much. This is what’s never going to change, never ever going to change, and—

Really think you ought to consider the man’s advice and get off that soapbox, old chap.

Sod off and—

Riley.

That’s all it takes. One word and Max’s head snaps up, whiplash-fast. He jolts back in his seat as the air thins.

Riley.

He’s just confessed to contemplating suicide, and she’s sitting right there. She risked everything to save him from that warehouse, to save him from prison, and he admitted he’s thinking of ending his life.

I appreciate the effort, Riley, really I do, but it was all for naught. Sorry about that. Terribly sorry.

Tell her it’s not true.

But it is.

Tell her you’ve changed your mind. That you made a mistake, and you see that now, and you won’t ever do it.

But that’s not true.

Who cares? Say it, you idiot. Just say it.

No.

He can’t tell her it isn’t an option anymore, because it is. It always will be. He can say he’s not going to do it tomorrow. That even before all this, he wasn’t going to do it tomorrow. This is why he keeps writing those bloody notes. He’s working it through. He gets to the end and realizes he doesn’t want to take that step, but he doesn’t delete the notes, either, because saying he doesn’t want to take the step now does not mean he’s sealing off that path forever.

Then look at her. Stop whining and look at her.

He can’t.

Coward.

Yes. He is.

“Max?”

She whispers his name, and it cuts through him like a blade. Right in the gut. A white-hot blade that keeps him pinned to the seat, unable to move, unable to look over.