Gray raises an iPhone and Aaron scowls.
“You’re a natural,” Gray says. “Now, let me send that to your daddy, and in about twenty minutes I expect this place to be surrounded by cops. Unless your daddy’s busy tonight—screwing his girlfriend or screwing over another company—because that would be very inconvenient.”
Aaron says nothing.
“There, picture sent. Video even, with a time stamp. Yes, I did the proof-of-life thing, as cliché as it is. Now, the next steps, kiddies …”
He keeps talking, but Max’s attention slides away. This isn’t real. Cannot be real. Kidnapped at a therapy sleepover? Really, Maximus? You’re losing your creative touch. You need to start writing again. Give that imagination a workout.
Oh, believe me. It’s had a workout. Just ask Justin.
Now, Max. You weren’t thinking clearly. It’s not your fault.
Sod off.
He looks over at Riley and focuses on her instead. That’s easy as pie, as his gran would say. Namely because Riley Vasquez is easy to look at. Two years ago he’d have sat across the class and planned how to talk to her. Hey, I think you’re brilliant and cute, and I’d like to get to know you better, so how about we go to the cinema Friday night?
He did fantasize about talking to Riley, but the conversation, as with most everything in his life these days, was different. Hey, I think you’re smart and sweet and a little bit messed up, and do you want to talk? Just talk? You seem like someone I could talk to, and sure, you think I’m a idiot, but that’s just an act. All right, maybe not completely an act. But you seem like you need someone to talk to and I do too, so how about it? You can talk about what happened to you and— Me? Um, nothing happened to me. Nothing important. Just lost my mind and haven’t found it again. Never will. Schizophrenia. Ever heard of it? Short version: I’m crazy. Sorry. Not supposed to say that. Bad Max. Bad, bad Max. No using the C-word. I’m not crazy. I just see things that aren’t there, hear people who aren’t there … Huh, yeah, that does sound like crazy, but shhh, don’t tell anyone. And don’t worry. I’m perfectly harmless. Well, unless I mistake you for a demon and try to strangle— Wait! No, come back.
Gray snaps his fingers in front of Max, startling him. “Am I boring you, son?”
“Yeah, kinda, mate. Can we speed this along?”
“Maximus …” his therapist, Aimee, says, her voice low with warning.
Gray snorts. “Maximus?”
“I prefer Max.”
“I bet you do. What kind of sadists name their kid Maximus?”
“A historian specializing in ancient Rome and a lieutenant-general in the British army. And if you know anything about the salaries of academics and career soldiers, you’ll realize I’m really not worth your time.” Max takes out his wallet and removes three twenties. “I have sixty. Can we call it a night? Things to do and all that. It is the weekend after all.”
“Max?” a voice says. “Sit down.”
He turns to see Riley walking toward him. Her hands tremble, and she’s obviously struggling to keep it together, and he wants to nod and say all right and sit down, but he wants to make her smile too, make her relax, show her this isn’t a big deal, not like before, like what happened when she was babysitting.
“I’m cutting through the bull—” he begins.
“Sit. Down.” She stops and lowers her voice. “Are you trying to get us killed? They have guns.”
“Are you sure? Maybe we’re imagining it. We are a little nuts, after all.”
She gives him a look that makes him happy she’s not the one with a gun.
So no chance of that talk, then? All right. Maybe we can just make out instead.
He chuckles, and her eyes narrow.
“Sit the hell down,” she hisses.
Sorry. Not his fault. Inappropriate affect. It’s a symptom.
Bollocks. You’re just an idiot. No meds for that.
At least she doesn’t look scared anymore.
Max sits cross-legged on the floor. Riley lowers herself beside him. See? Bad behavior has its reward.
Except she kind of hates your guts right now.
And an hour ago, she just didn’t like him very much. He’s making progress.
“Max?” she whispers. “Pay attention. Please. Don’t make this worse.”
She does have a point. If it is real, he isn’t helping. If it isn’t, then that’s all the more reason to pay attention. Find the lies. Find the truth.
CHAPTER 4
When they finish the pat-downs, they put us in a semicircle again, but on the floor this time. X-Files is at the front. The other two block the only exit, holding their guns casually, like a cup of coffee they’ve forgotten. X-Files is worse. He waves his around, gesturing as he explains the situation, the gun rising and falling, pointing this way and that, and every time it swings toward me I duck, just a little, and then I’m ashamed, not of the fear but of the way my muscles tense, ready to run. To skitter away like a scared mouse, looking for a hole to hide in.
No beds to scamper under here.
The gun points right at me, and it stays there, making me stare down the barrel. He’s not doing it intentionally, and somehow that’s worse, because all I can think is that his finger will slip and the gun will fire, and I’ll die, not because I stood up to him, not because I tried to save anyone, but because his finger slipped. Whoops. Sorry about that, kid.