Page 219 of Good Boys Don’t Bite

ELLIOT

MONDAY · 8:14 P.M.

Elliot recognized the coordinates before the map finished loading. Not the exact numbers. The place. A thin stretch of county-owned woodland northwest of Bellweather, where the paved roads narrowed into cracked asphalt and then gravel before eventually disappearing into miles of trees. The area had no official name beyond whatever parcel number existed in municipal records, but students called it North Ridge because Bellweather students apparently believed every patch of trees required branding. Elliot had been there before. That was the problem. Ronan leaned over his shoulder, studying the map.

“Where is that?”

Elliot locked the phone. Too fast. Ronan noticed. Of course.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Ronan’s expression hardened. Elliot almost laughed. Wrong word. Again. He unlocked the phone and held it out.

“North Ridge.”

“You know it?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“Everyone knows it.”

Ronan stared.

“That isn't what I asked.”

Elliot looked toward the darkened windows. The blinds remained closed. Outside, the patrol Vance had promised still hadn’t arrived. Or maybe it had and whoever was driving had parked somewhere they couldn't see. The thought irritated him.

“I've been there.”

Ronan’s jaw tightened.

“When?”

“A few times.”

“With who?”

“Friends.”

“Which friends?”

Elliot looked back.

“Are we seriously doing this right now?”

“Yes.”

The answer came without apology. That was new. Elliot hated it. He also understood. Someone had sent them coordinates connected to Dylan’s jacket. Two men were dead. Dylan was missing. Elliot had spent weeks lying just enough that every new truth now sounded suspicious. He had built this himself. That realization made him angrier than Ronan’s questions.

“Claire,” Elliot said. “Other people. Parties.”

“Recently?”

“No.”