Page 82 of Good Boys Don’t Bite

“They found his jacket.”

Ronan's stomach dropped.

“Where?”

Dylan swallowed.

“Saint Augustine's.”

The room changed. Ronan felt it. The same park. Mason's park. Behind him, a chair scraped softly against hardwood. Elliot stood. Dylan looked toward him.

“They found Lucas's jacket near where Mason died.”

Nobody spoke. Rain began again outside. Small droplets at first. Then harder. Ronan looked at Elliot. His face had gone completely still. For once, Ronan couldn't tell what he was thinking. Not remotely. And for reasons Ronan could not explain, that frightened him more than the phone call.

Chapter Eight — Nothing to Worry About

ELLIOT

THURSDAY · 11:52 P.M.

There was nothing to worry about. Elliot repeated that to himself while standing beneath the shower until the water ran cold enough to make his skin ache. Nothing to worry about. Lucas Harper's jacket had been found in Saint Augustine's Park. That was inconvenient. Not catastrophic. Inconvenient. The distinction mattered. Water struck the back of Elliot's neck and streamed between his shoulder blades. Steam had already coated the bathroom mirror, turning his reflection into a pale blur behind the glass. The room smelled like eucalyptus shampoo and the sharp mineral scent that came from Bellweather's ancient plumbing whenever the water ran too hot for too long. Elliot tilted his head beneath the spray. He could still hear voices downstairs. Dylan had not left.

That was irritating. The original plan had been simple. Dinner. Dylan panicked. Ronan comforted him. Eventually Dylan went home. Instead, Bellweather Police had called Dylan regarding Lucas's jacket and apparently transformed him into a permanent resident of the carriage house. Elliot had endured another hour of him. Then another. Now it was almost midnight. And Dylan was still downstairs with Ronan. Elliot shut off the shower. Silence rushed in around him. He stood dripping beneath the weak bathroom light and listened. Nothing clearly audible. The carriage house was old enough that voices traveled unpredictably through it. Someone could whisper downstairs and somehow sound as if they were standing beneath the bathtub, while a television playing at full volume occasionally disappeared entirely behind the walls.

Tonight, Elliot heard only the occasional rise and fall of conversation. Ronan. Then Dylan. Ronan again. Elliot reached for a towel. Nothing to worry about. He dried himself slowly. Lucas's jacket complicated things because Saint Augustine's created a visible line between him and Mason. Not Elliot. Lucas. Mason. That was what mattered. Two Bellweather students. Same social orbit. Same park. One confirmed dead. One missing. People would connect them. Police would connect them. Detective Vance already had. Of course she had. Elliot had watched the press conference twice after coming upstairs. Not because he was nervous. Because Vance interested him. She was careful. Most people revealed their assumptions unconsciously. They asked questions in ways that betrayed the answers they expected. Their tone changed when they believed someone was lying. Their faces tightened when presented with information that contradicted whatever theory they had already built.

Vance didn't do that. She gave away almost nothing. Elliot respected it. Which was inconvenient too. He wrapped the towel around his waist and wiped condensation from the mirror with his palm. His face appeared. Twenty-one. Clean skin. Wet dark-blond hair falling over his forehead. Green-hazel eyes. Nothing particularly threatening. Elliot leaned closer. He tried imagining himself through Vance's eyes. Bellweather psychology student. Good grades. No criminal record. Well-liked. Present at Mason Kerr's final party. Knew Lucas Harper socially. Questioned voluntarily. Cooperative. Polite. No obvious motive. No obvious connection beyond proximity. The kind of person detectives interviewed because procedure demanded it, then moved past. That was what he should remain. Elliot stared into his own eyes.

“You're fine.”

His reflection agreed. He dressed. Black sleep pants. White Tshirt. No hoodie. He opened the bathroom door. Ronan's bedroom was empty. Elliot looked toward the stairs. Dylan laughed below. Elliot stopped. It wasn't a loud laugh. That made it worse. Comfortable. Relaxed. The kind Dylan used when he forgot everything was falling apart. Elliot descended. The living room lamps had been dimmed. Dylan sat on the couch with one leg stretched across the rug. Ronan occupied the armchair opposite him, beer bottle balanced loosely against one knee. The television played silently. Local news. Lucas Harper's photograph filled half the screen. Of course. Dylan looked toward the staircase.

“Hey.”

Elliot smiled.

“Still here?”

Ronan's eyes narrowed. Dylan laughed.

“Told you he hates me.”

“I don't hate you.”

“You absolutely do.”

“See?” Ronan said.

Elliot ignored him. He walked into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator.

“What are you looking for?” Ronan asked.

“Food.”

“You ate.”

“Hours ago.”