Page 437 of Good Boys Don’t Bite

She continued walking. He followed. “You left that part out.” “Yes.” “Why?” “Because you were already determined to come.” “What was addressed to me?” “We don’t know.” “That makes no sense.” “The photograph showed an envelope beneath the container.” Ronan stared. “With my name?” “Yes.” “And you didn't tell me.” “No.” “Vance.” “You still came.” “That’s not the point.” “It is from my perspective.” Ronan swore. They reached the front steps. The main doors had been forced open by tactical officers. Glass crunched beneath their shoes. Ronan stopped at the threshold. Something about entering felt wrong. Not supernatural. Personal. This place belonged to Saint. Maybe not legally. Maybe not physically. But everything had been leading here. Tyler. The park. Nathan. Caleb. Samuel Cross. Adrian. Seven projects. The mask. Elliot. Ronan stepped inside. The smell came first. Dust. Mold. Old water. Something chemical beneath it. The lobby had once been expensive. Marble reception counter. Wide staircase. Tall windows. Now ceiling tiles sagged overhead and graffiti covered the walls. A tactical officer moved past. Ronan followed Vance toward the west corridor.

“Where was the photo taken?” “Basement.” “Of course.” “What?” “Nothing good is ever on the first floor.” Vance almost smiled. “Stay behind me.” “I know.” They reached a stairwell. Battery-powered lights had been placed along the steps by the entry team. Down. Ronan hated basements. He had not known that about himself before this week. New personality trait. Wonderful. The lower level smelled worse.

Concrete corridor. Old pipes overhead. Doors lining both sides. Most open. One tactical officer waited at the far end.

“Detective.” Vance approached. “What?” “We found the room.” Ronan’s pulse increased. “Clear?” “Yes.” “Evidence?” The officer looked at Ronan. Then Vance. “A lot.” That word bothered him. They moved. Room B-17. The number remained on a metal plaque beside the door. Vance entered first. Ronan followed. Then stopped.

“Jesus Christ.” The room was enormous. Not a patient room. Archive storage maybe. Metal shelves had been removed, leaving holes in the concrete floor. Someone had replaced them with tables. Seven tables. Perfectly aligned. One for each project. Ronan knew immediately. Photographs covered the wall behind them. Dozens. Maybe hundreds. People. Homes. Cars. Screenshots. Printed messages. Maps. Newspaper clippings. Every table had a number.

ONE. TWO. THREE. FOUR. FIVE. SIX. SEVEN. Ronan’s stomach turned. “This is his fucking museum.” Vance said nothing. She had gone still. Evidence technicians photographed everything before touching it. Ronan moved closer. Table One. A man he did not recognize. Midtwenties in the earliest photographs. Later older. Caleb? No. The dates were wrong. Nine years ago. Table Two. Woman. Dark hair. Multiple photographs. Table Three. Caleb Ward. Ronan recognized him immediately from the file. Table Four. Another man. Table Five. Nathan. Table Six. A woman. Table Seven. Elliot. Ronan stopped breathing. His table was different. Larger. More photographs. More documents. More everything. Elliot walking across Bellweather campus. Elliot

leaving class. Elliot at home. Elliot with Claire. Elliot at the gym. Elliot in restaurants. Elliot asleep. Ronan’s stomach dropped. Photograph after photograph. Years. Not months.

“How long?” Vance came beside him. “What?” Ronan pointed toward the earliest date. Three years ago. Elliot would have been eighteen. Before the forum. Before Saint supposedly met him.

“Saint knew Elliot before Elliot knew Saint.” Vance stared. “Looks like.” Cold moved through Ronan. Elliot had thought Saint found him online. No. Saint had selected him first. Then created the meeting. Ronan looked across the photographs.

“Why him?” No answer. Then he saw himself. Photograph near the edge. Ronan at twenty. Leaving the Vale house. Another. Ronan with friends. Another. Ronan loading something into his car. He stepped closer. Dates. Before Elliot and Ronan. Before their parents married. Before they were stepbrothers.

“What the fuck?” Vance saw. Her expression changed. “Ronan.” “Saint knew me too.” More photographs. Not as many. Enough. Then one of Elliot and Ronan together. First summer after the marriage. Backyard. Neither looking toward the camera. Another. Christmas. Through a window. Another. Ronan touching Elliot’s shoulder. Another. Elliot staring at Ronan when Ronan wasn’t looking. Ronan felt sick. Saint had not merely observed their relationship after it started. Saint had watched it form.

“Three years.” Ronan whispered it. Vance looked toward the table. “Maybe longer.” “No.” He pointed toward a photograph. Elliot. High-school graduation. Eighteen. Saint had been there. Watching. Choosing. Ronan’s jaw tightened.

“He was never random.” “No.” “Saint didn’t find Elliot on a forum.”

“No.” “He led him there.” “Possibly.” Ronan stared. “Why?” Vance looked toward the remaining tables. “That’s what we need to determine.” Ronan moved to Table One. The label beneath the photographs read: PROJECT ONE — DANIEL HART Dates spanning almost nine years. Last photograph five years ago. Newspaper clipping.

LOCAL MAN FOUND DEAD IN RESERVOIR Ronan froze. “Vance.” She came over. Read. Her expression hardened. “Cause?” “Drowning.” “Ruled?” “Accidental.” Ronan looked at the table. Red writing across Daniel’s final photograph. One word.

FAILED. His stomach dropped. Table Two. PROJECT TWO — MARA VOSS Last photograph. Newspaper clipping. WOMAN, 27, FOUND DEAD AFTER APPARENT OVERDOSE Red.

FAILED. Table Three. Caleb. No death clipping. Instead: WITHDREW. Table Four. PROJECT FOUR — ISAAC ROWE Ronan scanned. Last photograph. Missing-person article. No body. Red writing.

FAILED. Table Five. Nathan. UNSTABLE. Ronan almost laughed. Understatement. Table Six. PROJECT SIX — LENA MORROW Last photographs from two years ago. No death article. No red judgment. Only:

DORMANT. Ronan looked toward Vance. “Three alive.” “Caleb. Nathan. Lena.”

“Then Elliot makes four.” Vance froze. Exactly. Nathan had said three alive. If Elliot counted, one of those three was dead. Or Nathan didn’t count Elliot because he was current. Ronan’s pulse sharpened.

“Find Lena.” Vance immediately called it in. Ronan returned to Elliot’s table. No project number beneath his name. Instead:

THE FAVORITE. Ronan stared. There it was. Nathan had not imagined it. Saint really called Elliot that. His stomach turned. Below it:

ELLIOT MERCER Then: OBSERVATION BEGAN: MAY 2023 Three years. Then: CONTACT ESTABLISHED: FEBRUARY 2025 Almost two years of observation before Saint ever messaged him. Ronan felt cold. Saint had watched Elliot become an adult. Watched his family. His relationships. His habits. Then entered his life deliberately. Vance read over his shoulder.

“This changes things.” “No shit.” Ronan scanned the documents. Psychological notes. Pages. Hundreds. He caught fragments.

High social desirability. Compulsive image management. Possessive attachment. Suppressed aggression. Elevated response to humiliation. Protective fixation. Then: Primary attachment candidate identified. Ronan’s stomach dropped. He followed the notation. A photograph. Him. No. Fuck. Saint had predicted it. Before Ronan and Elliot ever touched each other. Before either admitted anything. Saint had identified Ronan as the person Elliot would become obsessed with. Vance looked at him. Ronan couldn’t speak. Beneath his photograph: RONAN VALE — PRIMARY LEVER His skin crawled.

“No.” Vance said nothing. “Fuck him.” He turned away. Saint did not get that. Saint did not get to reduce them to prediction. Attachment candidate. Lever. No. Elliot loved him. Fucked-up. Possessive. Complicated. Still real. Ronan breathed. Choice. Remember. Saint could predict behavior.

Prediction wasn’t ownership. He looked again. Another note. More recent.

LEVER BECAME COMPETITOR. Ronan almost laughed. “There.” Vance looked. “What?” “He’s jealous.” “This is not funny.” “It’s a little funny.” “Ronan.” “He literally wrote competitor.” Vance sighed. Ronan smiled despite himself. “Psychopathic little bitch.” An evidence technician looked over. Ronan stopped smiling. “Sorry.” Then he saw the envelope. White. Centered on the table. RONAN Black ink. His stomach tightened. Vance saw. “Don’t touch.” “I know.” Technician photographed. Gloves. Bag. Opened carefully. Inside: One sheet of paper. And a key. Vance read first. Her face changed.

“What?” She handed Ronan a photocopy after the original was documented. Three lines.

YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO MAKE HIM WORSE. INSTEAD HE MADE YOU BETTER. I HATE YOU FOR THAT. Ronan stared. Silence. Saint finally said it. Not philosophy. Not manipulation. Not experiment. Hate. Personal. Ronan read it again. Then: