Page 137 of Good Boys Don’t Bite

“Nothing.”

Silence. There it was. The word they had both started hating. Elliot exhaled quietly.

“You're doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

“Checking.”

Ronan leaned against the island.

“I asked what class.”

“You asked where I was, who I was with, what she needed, and what class it was for.”

“That's conversation.”

“No. That's an interrogation.”

Ronan looked toward the windows again. Rain had started around five and turned the backyard into a mirror of black grass and reflected porch lights. Water ran steadily from the gutters. The main house glowed through the trees, warm and normal and close enough that Ronan could probably shout and have Thomas hear him from the kitchen. The carriage house still felt strangely isolated. Maybe because Detective Vance had stood on the porch only a few hours earlier asking whether Ronan owned black gloves. Maybe because she had been sitting in her car afterward. Watching. Maybe because Ronan had spent the last three hours wondering how many photographs police had of him. Or Elliot.

“I'm not interrogating you,” he said.

“Sure.”

“Don't start.”

“I didn't.”

“Where are you?”

Silence. Ronan closed his eyes.

“Elliot.”

“Campus.”

“Where?”

“Library.”

“Which one?”

That did it. Elliot laughed once. Cold.

“Seriously?”

Ronan immediately regretted the question. Bellweather had one main library. He knew that. Elliot knew he knew that.

“Forget it.”

“No.”

“Elliot.”

“No, ask.”

“I said forget it.”