The Masked Truth Part 34

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 witnessesme and Brienneand 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 a.n.a.lyze 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 nowmaking 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 momentsjust random moments, with no apparent causewhen 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 heroa 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 lifeI 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.

When her parents told the media they needed money to care for her properly, she shut them down. Said she's not going home. She's talking to a social worker. Mom has offered to be her temporary guardian. Brienne's not sure she wants that. However it works out, I'll be there for her. She was brave for me. She risked her life to save me. I will repay her for that, in every way I can.

Max joins us partway through my visit. That is not coincidental. I'd texted to say I was going to see her. We visit Brienne together for a while. Then we leave, still together, and he says, "Do you have a few minutes?"

"I texted Sloane to say I don't need to be picked up for another hour."

He smiles. "Good."

He takes my hand and leads me through the hospital without another word. We're moving fast, ducking down side corridors, tensing every time we hear a voice, and, yes, I do flash back to the warehouse. Like I said, that doesn't go away. But it's a quick flash, pushed aside quickly with a wry observation that these last few days I do feel a little bit hunted, in need of escape. Everyone wants to talk to me, it seems.

I'm so glad you survived that. Um, yep, I am too. It must have been terrible. Yes, yes it was. Really and truly terrible, all those kids dying. Yes, and thank you for reminding me. I'd forgotten for three seconds. How are you holding up? I'm vertical. It's a start. If you need anything ... Quiet. Right now, I need peace and quiet, and I know you're trying to help, and I appreciate that, but I just need a little time to myself, okay?

Max takes me to the one place where we can find that peace. The rooftop. It's not easy getting there, but he's scoped out a route that only requires sneaking through two Do Not Enter doors. When we step into the sunshine, the first thing we both do is turn to the huge ventilation system, making enough noise that I swear my teeth are vibrating.

"Hmm," he says. "Not quite as quiet as I hoped."

I laugh and tug him across the roof until the noise of the ventilation system fades behind us. We find a spot on the far side and sit on the edge.

"Much better," he says.

"As long as no one needs that," I say, hooking my thumb at the helipad behind us.

He smiles, and we sit in comfortable silence, our legs dangling over the edge as we look out at the city, dappled with sunlight, and I savor that sight, because it reminds me how close I came to never seeing it again.

We're still sitting in silence when something taps my hand, and I look down to see him holding out a jeweler's box. I take it without a word and open it to find a necklace with a drop-shaped pendant.

"It's a raindrop," he says. "Not a teardrop. I realized after I bought it that might require clarification."

I notice etching, and I lift it to read Right as rain, and my eyes fill with tears.

"I wish I could tell you I really am right as rain," he says, his voice low. "That everything's fine now, and things are never going to get that dark for me, and I'm stronger than that, because I want to be stronger than that, I want to show you I can be, but ..." He takes a deep breath. "For now, I'm as close to being all right as possible. Much, much closer than I have been in a very long time. It's not where I want to be, but"

I turn and throw my arms around him. "I know."

We hug, and I feel ... I feel everything. I'm scared for him and I'm scared for me. Worried for him. Worried for me. Worried for what's going to happen, and feeling a little bit helpless because I know it's not up to me, but that I'll do my best, for both of us, and he'll do the same, and that's where it starts. With understanding and with trying and with wanting. And it's not all fear and worry and anxiety. There's more. So much more.

I hug him, and I'm happy. That's what it comes down to. He makes me happy, and he makes me a better person, and he makes me stronger, and I can only hope that I do the same for him, and if I do, then the rest doesn't matter.

I pull back, and then I take out the necklace and he helps me fasten it.

"I looked it up, you know," I say. "Where the phrase comes from."

He smiles. "Of course you did. And?"

"No one has a b.l.o.o.d.y clue."

He throws back his head and laughs. "In other words, it's utter rubbish."

"No," I say. "In other words, it means whatever we want it to mean. So I say that we are, in our own very special way, right as rain."

"We are indeed," he says, and leans over to kiss me.

MAX: INCREDULITY.

Incredulity: the state of being unable to believe something.

That is what Max felt, sitting in cla.s.s, catching a glimpse of Riley waiting outside the window. Incredulity. Not that he is surprised to see her there, considering she drove him and will take him home again. No, the incredulity is more a general sense of wonder, that she is there, that she is still there, that she might continue to be there, and that nothing he has said or done in the past six weeks has changed that.

He looks at the instructor, wrapping up cla.s.s with a note about the a.s.signment. Would Max have imagined himself here a few months ago? Dreamed of it, yes. Believed it possible? No. It was Riley who had brought him registration information for a creative writing cla.s.s, just something to get him out of the house. His mother had not been pleased. Not at all. She'd told him, in no uncertain terms, that she would not allow it until they were completely certain his medication was working and maybe next fall ... a full year away.

That's when Max realized he had to take a stand. That his mother thought she was doing her best for him. That Mum hated the suggestion that this "girl" knew better, but this wasn't about Rileyit was about him. Riley was suggesting two hours a week in a writing cla.s.s, which she'd drive him to and from. Max wanted it. Max saw no fault with the plan. So Max registered. After three weeks in this cla.s.s, he signed up for two college-level winter term cla.s.ses. If those went well, in September he'd be off to uni ... or college, as they called it here. With Riley, he hoped, though it was too soon to do more than hope. Granted, he'd broached the subject already, as a joke, and she hadn't quashed the idea, which was a start.

Max is not "fixed." Max will never be fixed. What he is, at the moment, is stable, and that's where he needs to stay. He won't, of course. It's like walking a tightrope. There are bound to be wobbles.

The catch-22 of schizophrenia is that if he is slipping, he is no longer in a mental state to see he's slipping. That means he needs someone to watch for him. Everyone to watch for him. Everyone in his life to know what to look for and be willing to call him on it, and if they are wrong and it's simply a mood swing, then there can be no hurt feelings, no recriminations, no resentment at being under a microscope. He needs to deal with the scrutiny as he deals with the side effects of the meds. This is the price for stability. It's the price for life too, because his alternative is not house arrest.i.t's writing another suicide note and maybe, just maybe, doing more than writing it.

Cla.s.s ends, and he's first out the door. First down the hall and through the exit, and then she's there, waiting for him.

"Good cla.s.s?" she asks.

"It was. I worked out my plot problem."

"Oooh, nice."

He takes her hand and leads her around the building. "I've decided my protagonistwho is not really you, as I've said ..."

"Of course."

"Despite looking and acting and even sounding like you."

"Mere coincidence."

"It is. Because modeling my protagonist after you, while flattering, might imply that I am utterly and absolutely smitten."

"Mmm, that would be wrong."

"It would be." He tugs her into an empty doorway and backs her up to the wall. "Because if you knew that, you could use it to do something alarming, like convince me to enroll in that first-aid cla.s.s with you."

She sputters a laugh. "I do believe you asked to join me."

"Only because you'll need a partner for practicing mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, and naturally you'll want me."

"Naturally." Another laugh, and he revels in the sound, so pure and happy.

He did this. He made her happy.

Yes, Maximus. You did. Now stop gloating and kiss her.

Which he does. He pulls her to him and he kisses her, a deep and delicious and wondrous kiss, and this is what matters, not just the kiss but every little moment with her, every kiss and every look and every laugh. This is what he holds on to, what helps him believetruly believehe can do this, have a life, a real life, because Riley gives him those kisses and those looks and those laughs, and says he's worth them, that he's worthy of a girl like her, and the rest doesn't matter.

Yes, he'd told himself this was a very bad idea, but that hadn't actually stopped the flirting or the hand-holding or the kissing, and eventuallywell, all right, it only took a weekthey came to the conclusion that, bad idea or not, it's what they want. Sometimes, that's what matters most, that if you want something badly enough, you'll find a way to make it work.

He wants a life. He wants a future. He wants Riley. His parents raised him to believe he could achieve anything he put his mind to, and as much as that made it harder to accept the diagnosisto accept that maybe, just maybe, there's more to life than putting in the effort.i.t still holds true that at the very least, if he wants something, he can put his mind to it and put his everything into getting it and, in the end, cross his fingers and hope.

When the kiss breaks, Riley says, "You never told me what you decided with the story."

"Ah, yes. You distracted me."

"I did not"

"Completely did, but I forgive you." He eases back, his arms still around her. "I decided to let my protagonist be happy. In the end, she will be happy."

"So she wasn't going to be before?"

"I hadn't decided. One can't give a character a perfect ending, and there's something to be said for the cla.s.sic literary downer, where she reaches the end of her journey only to discover it was all for naught, that the world is a hard and harsh place, and it will ultimately devour her and all she holds dear."

"Umm ..."

"I hate those endings."

She laughs. "Good."

"The question was what note to strike for the conclusion, because it can't be perfect, after what she's been through, what she'll still need to go through. In the end, having cleared her name and brought her parents' killers to justice, she will return to her drought-stricken village, and she'll see her sister and her friends and the boy she left behind, and despite everything that's happened, she will be happy. And then it will rain."

She smiles and reaches up, wrapping her hands around his neck. "Of course it will," she says, and kisses him.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS.

This book is a departure from my usual fare, but it's one I've been wanting to write for a very long time. As a departure, though, it meant I needed even more help than usual.

First, huge thanks to Amy Black and the team at Doubleday Canada for not only taking a chance on this book but embracing it. Your support made this so much easier.

To my agent, Sarah h.e.l.ler, thanks for not thinking this was a completely mad idea.

To Antonia Hodgson at Little, Brown UK, thank you for your invaluable help getting Max's British-isms right.

To those who read an early draft of this book, thank you for helping me strike the right note with some sensitive topics. You know who you are, and you know I appreciate your rea.s.surancesthis is one book where I was even more anxious than usual.

Finally, thanks to Andrew Murray for his last-minute help with the "gun mishap" scene, not only giving me a reasonable scenario but demonstrating it (well, without the actual mishap ...).

Also by Kelley Armstrong.

THE DARKEST POWERS TRILOGY.

The Summoning.

The Awakening.

The Reckoning.

THE DARKNESS RISING TRILOGY.