Page 90 of Good Boys Don’t Bite

“Promise.”

Elliot believed him. Mostly. He closed the remaining distance. Ronan looked down at him. Elliot touched the front of his shirt. Nothing sexual. Not exactly. Just contact. Confirmation. Ronan was still Ronan. Still here. Still looking at him the way he always did.

“Don't worry about me,” Elliot said.

Ronan snorted.

“Impossible.”

“You worry too much.”

“You give me reasons.”

“No, I don't.”

“You threatened Dylan's fingers.”

“He still has all ten.”

“High standards.”

Elliot smiled. Ronan's hand settled briefly against the side of his neck. Warm. Familiar. The touch loosened something Elliot hadn't realized he'd been holding tight.

“You're okay?” Ronan asked.

Elliot looked into his eyes.

“Yes.”

Another lie. Not because Elliot wasn't okay. Because okay wasn't the correct word. He was focused. Which was different. Ronan kissed his forehead. Elliot hated how much that tiny gesture affected him.

“I mean it,” Ronan said. “If this shit is getting to you, tell me.”

“I will.”

“Promise?”

Elliot smiled.

“Promise.”

That lie was easier. Ronan went upstairs at 12:41. Elliot waited until 1:18. He sat alone in the dark living room with his laptop closed on his knees and listened to the carriage house settle around him. No footsteps upstairs. No bathroom door. No mattress creak. Ronan was asleep. Elliot stood. He didn't leave. That would have been stupid. Instead, he walked into the small storage room beneath the staircase. The space was narrow and smelled faintly of dust, cardboard, and paint thinner from Ronan's supplies. Winter coats hung from a rod near the back. Holiday decorations occupied stacked plastic bins. An old vacuum leaned against one wall. Elliot closed the door behind him. Darkness. He turned on his phone flashlight. Moved two boxes.

Then another. Behind them sat a black plastic storage container. Nothing distinctive. Nothing anyone would notice. Elliot crouched. Opened it. The mask rested inside. White porcelain stared upward. The black eye openings swallowed the beam from his phone. The new crack Mason had made traveled across the left cheek like a dark vein. Elliot touched it. The fracture had bothered him at first. Now he liked it. Perfection was suspicious. Damage gave things history. Beneath the mask lay black gloves. A folded hoodie. Several disposable shoe covers. No trophies. No photographs. No jewelry. Nothing belonging to Mason. Elliot wasn't sentimental. He had never understood killers who kept pieces of people. Why would anyone want reminders? The absence was the point.

People disappeared from Elliot's life because he wanted them gone. Keeping part of them afterward seemed contradictory. His phone vibrated. Elliot froze. The flashlight shifted across the mask. A message. Unknown number. He stared. Then opened it.

UNKNOWN: Elliot Mercer?

His heartbeat increased. Not panic. Attention. He typed nothing. Another message arrived.

UNKNOWN: Detective Vance. Sorry for the late message. I'd like to speak with you again tomorrow if you're available.

Elliot looked down at the mask. For several seconds, neither he nor the porcelain face moved. Then he typed.

ELLIOT: sure. what time?

Her answer came quickly.