The Masked Truth.
Kelley Armstrong.
For Julia.
PROLOGUE.
If there"s anything more tragic than spending your Sat.u.r.day night babysitting, it"s spending your Sat.u.r.day night babysitting after canceling a date with the guy you"ve been dreaming about all year.
"Can"t you find someone else?" I say when Shannon asks me to take the gig because her grandma"s sick.
"You don"t think I"ve tried? You aren"t exactly at the top of my list these days, Riley."
I wince at that. We had been friends. Best friends. Then, last summer, her boyfriend got loaded and made a pa.s.s at me. I shut him down, of course, but I didn"t tell her, and that was my mistake, because someone else had.
"You owe me," she says.
"Can you cancel?" I ask. I know the PortersI used to babysit their daughter, Darla, when Shannon couldn"t. "They"d understand"
"Mr. Porter is getting an award. It"s a huge deal."
I take a deep breath. "Fine."
I"m walking to the Porters" when my phone buzzes. Where r u?
I answer, Don"t ask.
The phone rings. When I pick up, Lucia says, "I just got a call from Micah. Seems he was shooting hoops with Travis when Shannon walked by ... after you canceled with Travis to cover her babysitting gig. She said her grandma"s just fine, and she doesn"t know why you"d lie to him like that."
"What? No. That"s"
"Bulls.h.i.t? Uh-huh. She totally set you up."
Before I can answer, I plow into a man walking around the corner. As I apologize, I notice the b.u.t.t of a gun poking from under his jacket.
"Riley?" Lucia says.
I shake it off. I"m a cop"s daughter; I know people legally carry concealed weapons all the time.
"Riley?"
"Sorry, I"m at the Porters" place. I"ll call you back in a few, okay?"
"I can play Candy Land now!" Darla says as her mother tries to give me last-minute instructions while applying her makeup in the main-floor bathroom.
"Claire!" Mr. Porter calls from the living room. "We needed to leave five minutes ago."
"Only because you agreed to c.o.c.ktails first ... without telling me!" Mrs. Porter rolls her eyes at me. "Men. Sorry, Riley. Tonight"s a bit of a disaster. First his sister got sick and couldn"t take Darla. Then an important client asked him to predinner c.o.c.ktails. We"ll be at the Ritz all night. Our cell numbers are on the fridge."
"You"re going out?" Darla says. "Again?"
"That"s why Riley"s here, sweetheart." Mrs. Porter offers a strained smile as her daughter hangs off her arm. "If we don"t go out tonight, then you can"t play Candy Land with Riley."
"I have an idea," I say to Darla. "How about we set up the board, and then we"ll phone your mom and she can play on the way to dinner?"
"That"s a great idea," Mrs. Porter says. "You can move for me. And if I win, you can eat my ice cream."
"Ice cream?"
"Didn"t I mention that? Riley will walk you down to the Scoop after dinner."
"But if I win, you have to watch me eat mine," I say. "I think I"ll get bubblegum. You don"t like bubblegum anymore, do you?"
She squeals, and I laugh and propel her out as Mr. Porter calls, "Claire!" Then he sees me and says, "Sorry for shouting."
"She"s almost done," I say, smiling as Darla and I pa.s.s through the living room.
"What color do you want to be?" Darla asks.
"Purple."
"There is no purple, silly. There"s ..."
She rhymes them off, but I"m busy thinking I could text Travis an explanation as we set up the board ... except that I left my cell phone downstairs. If I go down to get it, it"ll seem as if I can"t even wait for the Porters to leave before I start chatting with my friends and ignoring their kid.
I look at the pieces Darla holds out. "Green, then."
"Mommy will be yellow."
Darla hums as she lays out the board. I step toward the door. It"s quiet down there, and while I doubt the Porters would leave before saying goodbye, they are in a hurry.
"I just need to grab something from downstairs," I say to Darla.
She nods and keeps humming, her attention on the board.
I walk into the hall. I"m at the top of the stairs when a sudden whoosh makes me jump.
"Really, Claire?" Mr. Porter sighs and then says, "Your hair must be dry by now," and I realize I"m hearing the blow-dryer from the downstairs bathroom.
Maybe if I just grab my backpack, it won"t look suspicious. I start down the stairs.
"What the h.e.l.l?" Mr. Porter says.
I freeze, but I"m only three steps down, too high for him to see.
"Who the h.e.l.l?"
A resounding smack. I stumble back. A thud follows, like something hitting the floor. I inch against the wall, and when I look through the railing I can see Mr. Porter"s outstretched hand on the carpet. I back up one step and crouch, my heart thumping so hard I"m struggling to breathe.
When I peer down, I see Mr. Porter"s face. His mouth is b.l.o.o.d.y and he"s wiping it as he sits up.
"You want money?" he says. "There isn"t more than a hundred bucks, but you can take my credit cards."
The rest is drowned out by the sound of the hair dryer, still running. A door creaks behind me. It"s Darla, stepping from the bedroom, her mouth opening as she sees me.
I fly up those stairs so fast I"m sure I"ll be heard. I push Darla back into the room and close the door.
"The game"s ready," she says, and I realize she didn"t hear anything.
"Go ahead and start. I-I"ll be right there."
I need to get to a phone. Is there one in her parents" room? Do they still have a landline?
And how long am I going to stand here wondering while a robbery unfolds below?
Robbery. Oh G.o.d, there"s a robbery, and the Porters are down there and I have Darla and I need toI need to do something, anything.
I hurry back to Darla and drop to a crouch. "I"m going to step out and talk to your dad. You need to stay here. Start your turn. Youngest goes first, right? Now wait right"
The hair dryer stops.
I have to warn Mrs. Porter.
A shriek from downstairs. A half-stifled yelp of shock has Darla"s head jerking up, her eyes going wide.
"Did you hear that bird? It sounds strange, huh?" My words tumble out fast and shaky I"m not even sure she understands. "Stay right here while I"
A shot.
I bolt up from my crouch so fast I nearly fall over. Did I just hear? No, I couldn"t have. It"s a robbery. Just a robbery.
"Riley ...?" Fear licks through Darla"s voice, and I know she heard the same thing.
"It"sit"s just a car," I blurt, barely able to get the words out. "Backfiring. But ... but ... we"re going to play a new game, Darla. Y-your mom"s coming up in a few minutes to say goodbye and we"re going to hide. How"s that?"
The fear evaporates as she lets out the first note of a squeal. I slap one trembling hand over her mouth. "Shhh. Don"t give it away. Now get under the bed."
"But that"s the first place she"ll"
"We don"t want to worry her. Just surprise her. Come on."
I prod her to the bed. Then I hurry to shut the door. Below, I hear Mrs. Porter"s m.u.f.fled sobs.
I need to do something.
"Riley?" Darla pokes her head from under the bed.
I quickly shut the door and run back to her.
I"m overreacting. Cop"s kidwe do that. It"s a simple armed robbery.
Simple armed robbery? At the thought, this weird burbling laugh sticks in my gut.
Yes, armed robbery is bad, but that"s all this is. The thief wants something. He fired a shot to scare them. That"s all. He wants debit cards or credit cards or jewelry, and they"ll give it to him. They"re smart. They aren"t arguing.
Just a robbery.
That"s it, that"s it, that"s it.
I crawl under the bed and strain to listen. I can still hear Mrs. Porter, her words now too faint to make out, but her tone tells me she"s begging.
Why don"t I hear Mr. Porter?
That shot.
No, they"ve knocked him out. That"s all. Knocked him A second shot. And Mrs. Porter stops begging.
CHAPTER 1.
If there"s anything more tragic than spending your Sat.u.r.day night babysitting, it"s spending your Sat.u.r.day night babysitting after canceling a date with the guy you"ve been dreaming about all year.
How many times have those lines gone through my head in the past four months? How many nights have I lain in bed, thinking them? Stood in front of a mirror, thinking them?
You stupid, stupid girl. You had no idea what tragedy is.
Tragedy isn"t a ruined Sat.u.r.day night. It isn"t a missed date. It"s lying under your bed with the babysitter and listening to two shots, and then following your babysitter into the hall and seeing your parents at the bottom of the stairs, covered in blood. Tragedy is spending your life trying to understand how that could have happened, how you could have been under the bed, giggling, with your babysitter, while your parents were murdered. And your babysitter did nothing about it.
h.e.l.l is being the girl who did nothing, who has to live with that guilt. Worse, having to live as a hero, listen to people tell me how brave I was and how I saved that little girl, and all I want to do is shake them and say, "I hid under the freaking bed!"
It doesn"t matter if my mother and my friends and my priest and the police and two therapists have told me I did the right thing. It doesn"t even matter if my older sister Sloane says it, rolling her eyes with "G.o.d, Riley, you are such a martyr. Would you rather have been shot? Like Dad?"
Any other time Sloane brought up our father"s death that casually I might have taken a swing at her for it. Maybe that"s what she wanted. To smack me out of my paralysis. It didn"t matter. I heard her say it, and I walked away.