The Masked Truth Read Free Page A

“You don’t contribute anything.”
    “I contribute my devastating wit and charm,” he says. “What more could you want?”
    Less of both
, I think, but I only say, “The point of therapy is to discuss your problems.”
    “But I don’t have any problems, old girl.” He cranks up the accent for that. It’s his shtick, dialing the Brit-talk up to eleven, like something out of a movie from the twenties.
    I give him a look. “Does anyone say ‘old girl’ anymore? Even in Britain?”
    “No, they do not. Because I’m over here now.” He grins, and I feel the overwhelming urge to shake it from his face. Well, at least I feel something. Though Aimee might prefer a less violent impulse.
    “Since you
are
here,” I say, “in this group, you
do
have problems. That’s a prerequisite for the therapy.”
    “Not for me. I’m right as rain, Ril-ia Vasquez. Right as rain.” He tosses me another grin and saunters down the hall toward the room.
    I bend and retie a shoe that doesn’t need retying, giving him time to get ahead. Then I straighten and I’m about to head in the same direction when I hear the squeak of a shoe and turn to see a girl. She’s maybe fifteen, with dark curly hair, wearing a cute little dress—a bit formal for the occasion, but from the way she’s nervously glancing down the corridors, I don’t think she’s a therapy regular. While the new Riley’s impulse is to turn away and let someone else handle it, I know better. So I call, “It’s this way.”
    She does a rabbit-jump and spins to face me.
    “The therapy room is over here,” I say, pointing.
    “O-okay,” she says. “I’ll … I’ll see you in there.”
    Again, I want to just say
whatever
and continue on. Again, there’s still enough of the old me—the girl who usedto serve on the student council, unofficial chick-in-charge-of-organizing-stuff—that I can’t turn my back on her, no more than I could a freshman who looks ready to bolt on her first day.
    “If you don’t mind walking in with me, I’d appreciate that,” I say as I head over. “I hate that part.” I stop in front of her. “I’m Riley.”
    “Sandy,” she says.
    “My roommate? Even better. Please tell me you know more about these weekend things than I do.”
    A weak smile. “No, sorry. I’m a total therapy noob. I …” Her gaze darts to her hand, and I see her sleeve riding up just enough to show bandages around her wrist. She quickly yanks her sleeve over them.
    “S-sorry,” she says. “It’s not— It’s not as bad as it looks. I wasn’t really … wasn’t really trying to …” She sucks in breath. “Just a stupid thing. A boy and … stupid. But my parents are freaked out so I said I’d go to therapy, and we heard about this weekend, and I thought it would make them feel better if I volunteered, you know? Prove I regret it and …” She looks up, her eyes widening. “Oh my God, I’m babbling. I can’t believe I just said all that.”
    I smile for her. “It’s practice for the sessions. And you did very well.” I look toward the therapy room, where I can hear Aaron’s loud voice and then Max with some sarcastic rejoinder. “We can go in there with the guys or we can poke around out here.”
    “I’d rather poke around. He sounds like a jerk.”
    “Which one?”
    She smiles, and we head off down the hall.

CHAPTER 2
    Worst thing about group therapy? The introductions.
    Hi, I’m Riley, and I … have a problem
.
    Yeah, we all do. That’s why we’re here.
    Hi, I’m Riley, and I … need help
.
    Um, well, then you’re in the right place.
    Hi, I’m Riley, and I’ve been diagnosed with situationally related anxiety and depression leading to post-traumatic stress disorder
.
    Say what?
    Hi, I’m Riley, and I was in the house while the couple I was babysitting for were murdered
.
    Oh, you poor thing.
    Hi, I’m Riley, and I was under the bed while the couple I was babysitting for were murdered downstairs
.
    Oh, you