Page 242 of Good Boys Don’t Bite

Ronan stared.

“And I get what?”

Elliot looked at him. For the first time all night, there was no control left. No golden boy. No perfect expression. Just Elliot. Scared. Possessive. Fucked up. In love with him.

“Everything.”

Ronan’s chest hurt.

“You didn’t give me everything.”

“I’m giving it to you now.”

“Because you got caught.”

The words hit. Elliot flinched. Ronan looked away. He wanted to hate him. That would have been simpler. He wanted disgust to erase every kiss, every touch, every night in this house. It didn’t. That frightened him more than the murders. His phone vibrated. Both froze. Ronan pulled it out. Vance. He stared at her name. Elliot stared too. The entire future seemed to sit inside that ringing phone. Answer. Tell her. Five murders. Mask downstairs. Everything ends. Or— Ronan didn’t know what the other option was yet. He let it ring. Elliot’s breathing changed. The call stopped. A text arrived.

VANCE: We need to speak. Now.

Another.

VANCE: The mask recovered at North Ridge is not the mask from the Mason Kerr footage.

Ronan stared. Elliot moved closer.

“What?”

He turned the screen. Elliot read. His face changed. Ronan watched. Not confusion. Recognition.

“What?”

Elliot whispered, “Someone copied it.” Cold moved through Ronan.

“What do you mean?”

“The mask at North Ridge.”

“You said yours is downstairs.”

“Yes.”

“Then whoever took Dylan had another one.”

“Yes.”

Ronan stared. There were two killers? No. Not necessarily. One killer. One watcher. One imitator. Someone who knew Elliot’s mask well enough to reproduce it. Someone who had filmed Mason before Elliot killed him. Someone who knew Mason screamed. Someone who had been inside their house. Someone who had taken Dylan. The horror expanded beyond Elliot. Ronan looked toward the storage-room door.

“Show me.”

Elliot’s face tightened.

“The mask.”

“Ronan.”

“Show me the fucking mask.”

For several seconds, he thought Elliot would refuse. Then Elliot walked toward the storage room. Unlocked nothing. Just turned the handle. Opened the door. Darkness. Ronan followed. Elliot moved boxes aside. One. Two. Three. Black storage container. Ronan’s stomach twisted. Elliot crouched. Opened it. The mask stared upward. White porcelain. Black eyes. Stitched mouth. Crack running across the left cheek. Mason’s crack. Ronan had seen it on television. Seen it in photographs. Now it sat three feet away inside his house. Real. Elliot reached toward it. Ronan caught his wrist.