Page 438 of Good Boys Don’t Bite

“Good.” Vance looked at him. “What?” “Let him hate me.” He folded the copy. “What’s the key?” Evidence technician held up the tagged original. Small brass key. Number engraved. 214. Vance frowned.

“Room?”

“Could be.” Ronan looked toward the corridor. “This building had patient rooms?” “Yes.” “Two-fourteen.” Vance radioed. Team moving. Ronan looked back at Elliot’s table. Something bothered him. Seven tables. Three confirmed dead or missing. Caleb survived. Nathan survived. Lena unknown. Elliot current. But Saint was a serial killer. Where was Adrian? Where was proof? He moved back toward Project One. Daniel Hart. Drowning. Project Two. Mara Voss. Overdose. Project Four. Isaac Rowe. Missing. Different methods. Deaths could look accidental. Failure. Saint cleaned up projects. Elliot killed targets. Saint killed his own. That distinction felt worse.

“Vance.” “Yes?” “If Adrian killed the failed projects, where’s the evidence?” “We don’t know that he did.” “He did.” “Ronan.” “Look.” He pointed. “Failed.” Another. “Failed.” Another. “Failed.” “Could mean anything.” “No.” He stared at Daniel’s clipping. “Saint doesn’t let people leave.” Caleb had escaped psychologically. But not cleanly. Suicide attempt. Years of damage. Nathan remained trapped. Isaac disappeared. Mara died. Daniel died. Saint needed control until the end. Ronan looked toward Elliot’s table.

“What happens when the favorite fails?” Silence. Vance’s expression changed. Exactly. Elliot confessed. Elliot rejected Saint. Elliot chose Ronan. By Saint’s own system, Elliot had failed. Except Saint hadn’t written it. Not yet. Ronan’s chest tightened.

“Get Elliot moved again.” Vance shook her head.

“No.” “What?” “Moving him hasn’t worked.” “So what?” “We secure the current location.” “Saint knows where it is.” “Yes.” “Then—” Her radio crackled. “Detective.” She answered. “Go.” “Room two-fourteen located.” Ronan’s attention snapped toward her. “And?” Pause. The officer sounded wrong. “Ma’am, you need to see this.” Ronan hated those words.

Room 214 had no door. Not anymore. Someone had removed it years ago. The room itself looked like every abandoned patient room Ronan had imagined. Small. Concrete. One barred window. Rusting bed frame. Closet. Except the closet had a new lock. Brass. Key 214. Vance inserted it. Ronan stood behind her. Two tactical officers flanked the doorway.

“Back up,” Vance said. Ronan did. Barely. The lock opened. Vance pulled the closet door. Nothing happened. Stuck. One officer forced it. The door opened. Darkness. Not closet. Stairs. Down. Ronan stared.

“Secret basement beneath the basement.” Vance looked exhausted. “I hate this building.” “Finally something we agree on.” Lights went first. Officers. Then Vance. Ronan was told to remain upstairs. He did. For forty-three seconds. Then Vance called.

“Ronan.” He looked down the stairs. “What?” “Come down.” That was worse than being told to stay. He descended. The staircase ended in a narrow underground corridor. Old service

tunnels. Pipes. Concrete. At the end: Another room. Modern. Clean. Powered. Ronan entered. And finally saw Saint. Not Adrian himself. His life. Computers. Monitors. Hard drives. Files. Weapons. Clothing. Masks. Dozens of disposable phones. The entire infrastructure. One wall covered with photographs of the seven projects. Another with newspaper clippings. And centered above everything: A photograph of Adrian Cross. Current. Twenty-nine. Same pale eyes. Same thin face. Older than the missing-person image. Alive. Beneath it, handwritten:

SAINT Ronan stared. “There.” Vance came beside him. No qualifier now. “Adrian Cross.” “Saint.” “Yes.” Proof. Finally. An evidence technician moved toward the computers. Another officer opened a cabinet. Then froze.

“Detective.” Vance turned. Inside were personal belongings. Wallets. Watches. Phones. IDs. Daniel Hart. Mara Voss. Isaac Rowe. Trophies. Ronan’s stomach turned. Saint had killed them. Maybe not enough for court yet. Enough for Ronan. Then the officer pulled out a clear evidence-style bag. Inside: A length of blue cord. Dark staining. A photograph attached. Daniel Hart. Another bag. Medication bottles. Mara Voss. Another. Bloodstained shirt. Isaac Rowe. Vance went silent. Ronan stared. Saint didn’t merely create killers. Saint killed the projects who stopped playing. Serial killer. Confirmed.

“Jesus.” Then an alarm sounded. Not building alarm. Computer. Every monitor turned on simultaneously. Seven screens. Seven project numbers. One by one, they went black. Project One. Black. Two. Black. Three. Black. Four. Black. Five. Black. Six. Black. Then Seven. Elliot’s photograph filled every screen. Ronan stopped breathing. Not PROJECT SEVEN.

FAVORITE. Then text appeared. HE WAS NEVER SUPPOSED TO CONFESS. Ronan stared. Another line. YOU DID THAT. His jaw tightened.

“No.” Vance looked toward him. Ronan knew Saint could hear. Good. “You don’t get to give me credit for his choice.” Pause. Then: HE CHANGED FOR YOU. Ronan stepped closer to the monitor. “He changed for himself.” Nothing. Then: LIAR. Ronan smiled. There. Adrian angry. Good. “You watched us for three years and still don’t understand him.” The screens flickered. I UNDERSTAND EVERYTHING ABOUT HIM. “No.” Ronan’s pulse steadied. “You understand what Elliot does when he’s scared.” Silence. “What he does when he’s angry.” Nothing. “What he does when he thinks nobody will love him if they know what he is.”

The screen remained still. Ronan continued. “You never figured out what he does when someone stays.” Long pause. Then every monitor went black. Ronan almost laughed. Vance looked at him.

“That was either very smart or incredibly stupid.” “Usually both.” One monitor turned back on. Single video. Live. Elliot. Federal detention annex. His cell. Ronan’s blood went cold. Elliot sat on the bed reading something. Alive. Safe. For now. Then another camera feed appeared beside it. Hallway outside Elliot’s cell. Empty. Third feed. Security station. Two officers. Fourth. Exterior. Fifth. Parking garage. Saint had all of it. Ronan’s chest tightened. Text appeared. YOU WANT TO KNOW WHAT HAPPENS TO FAILED PROJECTS? Ronan looked toward the trophies. He knew. Then:

ASK DANIEL. ASK MARA. ASK ISAAC. Vance’s face hardened. Admission. Maybe. Then: THEY LEFT ME. There. Ronan stared. Saint killed them because they left. Not failure. Abandonment. Everything clicked. Samuel Cross. Adrian

disappearing. Projects. Attachment. Obedience. Saint wasn’t merely studying people. He was recreating the same relationship over and over. Finding someone damaged. Making himself necessary. Punishing departure. Until Elliot. Favorite. Why? Ronan looked at Adrian’s photograph. Then Elliot on the live feed.

“Your father.” The screens froze. Vance looked toward him. Ronan continued. “Samuel.” No response. “You didn't learn this from him.” The Elliot feed remained. “You did this because of him.” The screen flickered. Good. Ronan stepped closer. “He left you.” Text appeared immediately. NO. There. Ronan’s heartbeat increased.

“Did he?” SHUT UP. Vance looked toward Ronan. He ignored her. “Samuel killed himself.” STOP. “And you spent the next six years finding people you could make incapable of leaving you.”

Every monitor shut off. The room went dark except tactical lights. Silence. Ronan breathed. Saint had a wound. Good. Not because Ronan wanted to exploit trauma. Because Saint had spent years pretending to be something above human. He wasn’t. Just Adrian. Damaged. Violent. Controlling. A serial killer who dressed abandonment up as philosophy. Then one monitor flickered on. No video. Just text. YOU THINK YOU KNOW ME NOW? Ronan stared.

“No.” Pause. “Don’t care.” Nothing. “I only care about Elliot.” The words disappeared. Then: SO DO I. Ronan’s jaw tightened. “No.” He stepped closer. “You care about owning him.”

Silence. “I love him.” The monitor went black. Ronan exhaled. Then Vance’s radio exploded with noise.

“DETECTIVE.” Everyone froze. Vance grabbed it. “Go.” “Annex reports security breach.” Ronan’s blood went cold. “No.” Vance turned toward him. The officer continued. “Power interruption on secure wing. Backup active.” Ronan was already moving. Vance caught him. “Wait.” “Fuck that.” “Ronan.” “ELLIOT.” Another transmission. “Officer down.” Everything inside Ronan stopped. Vance’s face emptied. “How many?” “One confirmed.” “Elliot Mercer?” Ronan couldn’t breathe. Static. Then: “Mercer is secure.” Air returned. Barely. Ronan grabbed the wall. Vance continued. “Lock the facility. Nobody enters or exits.” The officer answered. “Already initiated.” Ronan looked toward the live-feed monitor. Black. Saint had distracted them. Brought them here. Showed them everything. While moving somewhere else. Of course. His phone vibrated upstairs. He couldn’t hear it. Still somehow knew. Saint. An officer rushed down holding Vance’s evidence pouch.

“Detective.” Inside, Ronan’s temporary phone lit. Message. Vance opened the pouch with gloves. Read. Then looked at Ronan.

“What?” She turned it. YOU FOUND MY OLD HOME. Another message. SO I VISITED HIS NEW ONE.

Ronan’s stomach dropped. Another. FAIR TRADE. Then a photograph. Elliot’s cell door. Open. Empty. Ronan stopped breathing. Vance immediately grabbed her radio.