The Masked Truth(92)

No, Max. Not unable. Unwilling. If you care about her, look over and lie. Tell her what she wants to hear. Tell her you’re all right.

He does care about her. Which is why he’s not going to lie. He’s not going to make her think everything is fine and he’ll never do it, because then, if he ever does, she’ll feel as if she failed, as if he was, in this moment, back on track and she failed to keep him there.

Then don’t lie. Tell her you won’t do it and mean it.

“Max?” Her voice is so low now he can barely hear it, and he can sense her leaning toward him, hovering there, her worry palatable.

“Max? Talk to me. Please.”

He turns away and hunches down in the seat.





CHAPTER 34


Max wants to kill himself.

It doesn’t matter how many times I’ve thought those words in the last few minutes, each time they’re like a punch in the stomach.

He wants to kill himself, and I had no idea. No idea. I thought I understood, and I was so damned proud of myself for that, for doing the research, for trying to understand what he’s going through, because I wanted to be the one who got it.

I wanted to be the one who helped him.

No, I wanted to be the one who saved him.

The thought is like grinding a fist on my punched stomach, and it’s all I can do not to double over and retch. Save him? Really? How pathetic is that? How arrogant is that? I couldn’t save the Porters. I couldn’t save Sandy or Gideon or Maria or Aaron or Lorenzo. I didn’t do a damned thing for any of them. But by God, I was going to save Max. I’d be the one person who believed in him, and I’d do more than believe in him—I’d storm out of that hospital and I’d clear his name, and I’d set him free.

Free.

To kill himself.

Because that’s what he wants, and I never saw it. Never had any idea. Oh, but I understand his situation. Really I do.

No, I don’t. I had no idea what he was going through. I saw the despair and the hopelessness. I saw the frustration and the rage. I saw the absolute agony in his face when he talked about strangling his friend, about what it felt like to do that, to live with doing that, to live with knowing he could do that again.

I saw the fear when he kept warning me to be careful around him, and I knew he was thinking he could do the same to me, but I didn’t really understand what that means to him. To say “I like this girl” and “I want to be with this girl, but I can’t, because I don’t know if I’ll wake up in the night and wrap my hands around her throat and maybe I never will but I can’t live with the possibility.”

I can’t live with the possibility.

I still want to save him.

I think that’s the worst of it. I still want to take his hand and tell him he can get through this. That I’ll help him. We’ll come up with a strategy, and he’ll see things aren’t as bad as he thinks, and it’ll all be fine. Right as rain.

Complete and utter bullshit.

It will not be fine, and whatever he decides to do about that is his choice. Not mine. Not his mother’s or his father’s. Because this isn’t about us. Those notes aren’t a cry for help. He isn’t angry and looking to hurt someone. This is about him. Entirely about him. And I don’t want it to be. Because I care about him, and I don’t know how to care about someone who’s thinking of ending his life, how to take that risk when everything already hurts so much, when I’m barely walking through life myself.

I’m huddled in my corner of the backseat now. He’s retreated to his, and that’s as clear an answer as any. He doesn’t want my help. Doesn’t need it. And I feel so alone. I feel like I finally found something—found someone, found what I needed to get through all this, someone to lean on and laugh with and talk to—and … no. That’s not what I found at all. I’m sinking, and I didn’t grab a life preserver, I grabbed an anchor, and either I let go or I sink with it, and I don’t want to let go. I don’t want to let go.

I feel something touch my fingers, and I see Max’s hand, his pinkie hooking mine. I lift my gaze, and he works on something like a smile, he works so damn hard at it, and I … I burst into tears.

It’s not what I want to do. It’s the last thing I want to do. But I see his expression and the tears come, and he moves fast, stretching in the seat belt, his cuffed hands taking mine, and I fall against him and he whispers, “I’m sorry, Riley. I’m so, so sorry. I don’t want to hurt you. I never want to—”

“That’s enough,” Buchanan says. “Get away from her, Max.”

“Just a moment,” Max says. “Please. I’m still handcuffed. Just give me a moment.”

“I said get the hell away from her, you psycho—”

“Stop that,” I snarl, pulling away from Max. “Act like a damned professional.”

“Excuse me?” Buchanan twists in his seat. “Don’t you tell me—”

“Enough,” Wheeler says. “You get back from him, Riley. You too, Max.”

His voice is oddly rough, like he’s lowering it, and that doesn’t matter, because as soon as he speaks, I don’t hear Riley and Max. I hear Miss Riley and Maximus. And I stare at his profile. I stare as hard as I can, my heart thumping.