The Masked Truth(98)
Max doesn’t deserve to live with knowing he couldn’t stop me.
I look up at Max, and I hand him the gun.
CHAPTER 37
It’s over. Yet it isn’t. Three days have passed, and I don’t see an end in sight, but Max is free and Wheeler is in prison and neither of those things is going to change, and I am satisfied with that.
I’ve barely seen Max in three days. We’ve tried, but it’s like two ships passing in the night. No, two ships passing in a storm. We catch sight of each other or we manage to pop off a text and then we’re pulled off in our separate directions, by our separate obligations.
We start ending our texts with “Soon.” Every last one of them. Our version of goodbye, a closing that isn’t a closing but a promise. This will all pass, and we’ll see each other soon, and nothing and nobody will stop us.
The process of exonerating Max and charging Wheeler went more smoothly than I’d dared hope. It helped that Predator—who was an ex–military buddy of Wheeler’s—was still alive, lying low and waiting for his friend, and when the police showed up at his door, he treated his good buddy the same way they’d treated their colleague—Cantina—and Predator’s girlfriend, Aimee. He turned on him in a flash. The only thing rarer than honor among thieves? Honor among killers.
As for what happened that Friday night, we’d correctly figured out most of it, including Mr. Highgate putting a hit on his son. Wheeler learned of the job and incorporated it into his plan. But it didn’t actually start there. It started with Maria. Yes, Maria, the girl with the smile and the defiant T-shirt. Her stepmom didn’t want to be a stepmom. Didn’t want to share her new husband with his daughter. So she convinced him to take out a life insurance policy on Maria. Then she went looking for a killer. Wheeler caught wind of the job, learned Maria was in therapy, thought of Aimee’s failure to coax anything incriminating from me, and he hatched a plan to get rid of me and make a little money at the same time. Then he found out Highgate was looking for a hit on his son, and the pieces fell in place for something much bigger, much more lucrative. A grand scheme to combine two paying hits with silencing two witnesses—me and Brienne—and blaming a schizophrenic eighteen-year-old. As for Sandy and Gideon? They just happened to sign up for the weekend. Collateral damage.
I’ll never understand that. I’ll especially never understand how any parent could want his own child dead. That will haunt me forever. Change me forever.
What I do understand is that Wheeler was wrong. I didn’t run in that warehouse and leave the others to their fate. Because if I did, then so did Max, and I know Max did not. Maybe that’s the wrong way to look at it. Maybe I should be able to analyze my own behavior more objectively, but I can’t. I need to look at the guy who was by my side the whole time, and when I do, I can say, unequivocally, that he was not a coward.
We did the best we could. We tried to help others. We tried to get help for others. Our failure to do so will never stop hurting. That’s what I’ve taken from this. The understanding that there are events and situations that you’ll always second-guess, always think you could have done better.
The rest hasn’t gone away either. I know people sometimes say that if you’re depressed and anxious, you just need purpose, something to take your mind off your problems. I have plenty of purposes now—making sure Wheeler goes to jail for life, helping Max and Brienne, putting my own life back together. I’m doing all that … and I still wake every night, shaking and drenched in sweat. I have flashbacks that stop me cold. I have moments—just random moments, with no apparent cause—when I’m seized by the overwhelming urge to go to bed, cover my head and stay there. I don’t, but I still have to fight that urge every single time. But I will cope with that. I’ll cope with all of it. I know now that I can.
Right now, though, coping feels like as impossible a goal as getting time with Max. I’m spending a third of my days recuperating from injuries, a third talking to police and a third dealing with the media. Same for Max, though in his case his injury is less severe and the media attention is worse. I want to say he’s been branded a hero—a guy with a misunderstood condition that led to hateful accusations. There’s some of that. But there’s also uncertainty and whispers. Last night I overheard two nurses wondering if Max was really as innocent as they said, speculating that while he clearly wasn’t behind all the murders, the death of Aaron Highgate was a little suspicious, wasn’t it? And Max was, you know, crazy.
Sloane had to drag me away from them. Then I listened as she stalked back and told them off for me. My sister isn’t what I thought she was. I’m still not sure what she is, who she is, and that’s uncomfortable, because I’ve lived with her my whole life—I should know her better than anyone. I don’t. I’m looking forward to rectifying that, though.
I’m with Brienne now. She’s awake. The damage to her spine … I want to say that she’s fine and everyone was overreacting, but life isn’t like that. The fact she survived is a miracle, and I can’t ask for more. Well, yes, I can ask, but I can’t expect it. The doctors don’t know the extent or permanence of the damage. Right now, she can’t move her legs. She has some feeling, though, and they say that’s a good sign, so I’ll take it.
Brienne doesn’t bounce back in any other way either. She almost died. Her brother is dead. Her parents? Her parents told the press that River had always been impossible to control, that they knew something like this would happen, that he’d go bad, and it wasn’t their fault. Brienne says she’ll never forgive them for saying that.