Page 397 of Good Boys Don’t Bite

“Probably.”

Elliot laughed softly. Bitter.

“Fucking cliché.”

Ronan almost smiled.

“Serial-killer mentorship pyramid scheme.”

Elliot stared. Then laughed. He couldn't help it. Ronan did too. Five seconds of absurdity. Needed. Then Elliot asked:

“Why Adrian Cross?”

“Nathan doesn’t know.”

“He met Saint?”

“No.”

“Ever?”

“No.” “Voice?” “Once.” Elliot froze. “What?” “Phone call.” “When?” “Two years ago.” “Description?” “Male.” “So we were right.” “Maybe.” “Age?” “Nathan guessed thirties or forties.” “Accent?” “None he noticed.” “Anything else?” Ronan stared. “You’re doing the thing.” “What?” “Detective Elliot.” “I’m in jail. Let me have a hobby.” “You are not in jail yet.” “Semantics.” Ronan’s face tightened at the word. Elliot immediately regretted it. “Sorry.” Ronan shook his head. “Nathan remembered one thing.” “What?” “Saint called him from a landline.” Elliot frowned. “How would he know?” “Caller ID had an institution name.” His pulse changed. “What institution?” Ronan looked at him. “St. Augustine Behavioral Health.” Silence. The park. Saint Augustine’s. The repeated location. Mason. Lucas’s jacket. Dylan’s phone. Not random. Never random. Elliot’s stomach dropped. “That closed years ago.” “Exactly.”

“How many?”

“Eight.”

He knew the building. Everyone did. Old psychiatric hospital on the northern edge of Saint Augustine’s Park. Partially demolished. Main structure abandoned. The city had spent years arguing over redevelopment. Elliot stared.

“Saint Augustine’s Park was named after the hospital.”

“Yes.”

“Saint.”

Ronan nodded. The name. Not religious. Geographic. Maybe. Elliot felt the pieces move.

“Adrian Cross worked there.”

“Maybe.”

“Patient.”

Ronan’s expression changed.

“Maybe.”

“Doctor.”

“Maybe.”

“Staff.”

“Vance is pulling records.”

Elliot paced one step before remembering the room. Ronan watched.

“What?”