Page 431 of Good Boys Don’t Bite

Ronan stared. Again. How did everyone know everything? Vance sighed.

“Your relationship is not subtle anymore.”

Fair.

“What do I tell him?”

“The truth.”

Ronan laughed.

“That’s becoming annoyingly popular advice.”

“Try it.”

He looked toward the locked corridor. Truth. I tried. They moved you. I’m still here. Maybe enough. He hoped. Vance handed back his temporary phone.

“Saint’s burner is being processed.”

“Anything?”

“Camera access.”

Ronan’s attention sharpened.

“They had county camera access?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“Credentials.” “Stolen?” “Maybe.” “Whose?” Vance hesitated. There. “What?” “Former employee.” Ronan stared. “County?” “No.” “Then?” She looked at Bell. Then Ronan. “St. Augustine Behavioral Health.” Silence. Ronan’s stomach dropped. “The old hospital.” “Yes.” “How the fuck would those credentials access county cameras?” “They wouldn’t.” “Then what?” “The username was reused.” Ronan frowned. Vance continued. “Same person later worked county IT.” Cold. “Name?” She hesitated again. Ronan stood. “Vance.” “Dr. Samuel Cross.” Silence. Cross. Adrian Cross. Ronan stared. “Samuel.” “Yes.” “Doctor?” “Clinical psychologist.” Everything sharpened. Saint. Behavior. Projects. Forums. Manipulation. A psychologist. Of course. “Worked at St. Augustine?” “Six years.” “When did it close?” “Eight years ago.” “Then county?” “Contract consultant, then information-security role.” “That makes no fucking sense.” “He had technical training.” “Psychologist and IT?” “People have multiple skills.” Ronan stared. “Adrian Cross.” “Possibly fabricated from Samuel Cross.” “Where is Samuel now?” Vance’s expression changed. Ronan knew. “What?” “Dead.” Silence. Bell looked up. “When?” “Three years ago.” Ronan’s stomach dropped. Nathan had been talking to Saint three years. Caleb four. Samuel could not be Saint now. Maybe ever. “Cause?” Vance said: “Suicide.” Everything went still. Ronan thought of Caleb. Saint pushing him toward suicide. Patterns. Projects. Maybe Samuel had been another project. Maybe Saint took his name. “Family?” “One son.” Ronan’s attention sharpened. “Name?” Vance looked at him. “Adrian.” There. Fuck. “Adrian Cross exists.” “He did.” Ronan stared. “Did?” “Reported missing six years ago.” Silence. Bell swore softly. Ronan felt cold move through him. “Age now?” “Twenty-nine.” “Nathan’s age range.” “Yes.” “Patient at St. Augustine?” Vance shook her head. “His father worked there.” “Then Adrian grew up around it.” “Possibly.”

“Photo?”

Vance pulled one up. Old. Teenager. Seventeen maybe. Dark hair. Thin face. Pale eyes. Ronan stared. Nothing. Then something. He had seen him. No. Maybe.

“Wait.”

Vance noticed.

“What?”

Ronan enlarged the image. The jaw. Eyes. Different hair. Older now. A face half remembered from somewhere.

“Where?”

Bell asked. Ronan’s pulse increased. Campus. No. Hospital? No. His own house. He stared harder. Then it hit. The camera installers. That morning. One worker. Standing near the maple tree. Dark baseball cap. Thin face. Barely looked at Ronan. Fuck. Ronan stood so fast the chair scraped backward.

“He was at the house.”

Vance froze.

“What?”

“This morning.”

“Who?”