Page 55 of Good Boys Don’t Bite

“You're not freaked out?”

Elliot thought about the correct answer. Then decided Ronan deserved something closer to the truth.

“I'm interested.”

Ronan's eyebrows drew together.

“In what?”

“The investigation.”

“Why?”

Elliot shrugged.

“I'm studying psychology. Someone was murdered near campus. The police have almost nothing publicly. Everyone is constructing explanations because uncertainty makes them uncomfortable.”

Ronan stared. “That is the most Elliot answer imaginable.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“You somehow made murder sound like homework.”

Elliot laughed. Ronan kissed his forehead. “Freak.”

Elliot smiled. If Ronan only knew. The thought appeared so naturally that it startled him. Not because it was new. Because for one brief second, Elliot imagined telling him. Everything. The park. The mask. Mason begging. The warm blood slipping between Elliot's gloved fingers. He imagined Ronan's face. Shock. Disgust. Fear. Maybe hatred. The fantasy died immediately. No. Ronan knew Elliot better than anyone. That didn't mean he needed to know everything. Some doors were closed for a reason. Ronan settled onto his back again. Within ten minutes, his breathing changed. Elliot remained awake. His phone rested beside him. He picked it up once more. Opened the photograph. The mask stared from the screen. Black eyes. Stitched mouth. Cracked cheek.

Hundreds of strangers were trying to figure out who was behind it. Elliot enlarged the photograph until pixels distorted the porcelain. Then he smiled. Let them look. They weren't looking at Elliot Mercer. Nobody ever did. Not really. He locked the phone and placed it facedown. Beside him, Ronan slept with Elliot's mark darkening against his skin. Elliot touched it once. Then closed his eyes.

Chapter Six — Missing

RONAN

WEDNESDAY · 7:14 P.M.

The second person disappeared

twelve days after Mason Kerr died. Ronan heard about it while standing barefoot in the carriage-house kitchen with a half-finished

architecture model spread across the island and a piece of

basswood glued to his thumb.

“Fuck.”

He pulled his hand away too quickly. The narrow strip snapped in half. Ronan stared at it. Then at the glue drying across the pad of his thumb.

“Perfect.”

Rain ticked softly against the windows. It had been raining on and off for three days, never hard enough to become a storm, just a constant cold drizzle that made Bellweather feel damp all the way through. The backyard beyond the windows had turned black beneath the early November darkness, the grass slick with water and fallen leaves plastered against the stone path leading toward the main house. Ronan wiped his thumb against a rag. Didn't help. The glue only spread. His phone vibrated beside the cutting mat. He ignored it. Another vibration followed. Then another.

“Jesus Christ.”

He grabbed the phone. Three messages from Dylan. Ronan nearly put it back down. Then he saw the first one.

DYLAN: you seen lucas today?

Ronan frowned. He opened the thread.