Page 66 of Good Boys Don’t Bite

“Unless he was meeting someone.”

Elliot's face remained perfectly still. Then he nodded.

“Maybe.”

Ronan looked toward the dark windows. For the first time since Mason's murder, the carriage house didn't feel isolated from whatever was happening in Bellweather. It felt exposed. He imagined someone standing beyond the glass. Watching. The thought was ridiculous. Ronan stood and closed the curtains anyway. Behind him, Elliot watched.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Ronan turned.

“You're smiling.”

Elliot's mouth flattened instantly.

“I wasn't.”

“You were.”

“No.”

Ronan stared. Elliot stared back. Then Ronan laughed once. Not because anything was funny. Because the alternative was admitting the expression had unsettled him.

“Freak.”

Elliot smiled again. This time properly. Familiar. Safe. Ronan sat beside him. At eleven forty-six, Bellweather Police announced that Lucas Harper was officially considered a missing person. No connection to Mason Kerr's homicide had been established. No suspect had been named. No arrest had been made. And somewhere beyond the warm little carriage house, another family waited beside a phone that refused to ring. Ronan eventually fell asleep on the couch with Elliot curled against him. He didn't see Elliot open his eyes at 1:03 A.M. Didn't see him carefully lift Ronan's arm from his waist. Didn't hear the bedroom door upstairs open. And when the carriage-house back door clicked quietly shut six minutes later, Ronan slept through that too.

Chapter Seven — The Last Person to See Him

RONAN

THURSDAY · 6:38 A.M.

Ronan woke because he was cold. For several seconds, he didn't understand why. His neck hurt. His left arm had gone numb beneath him. Something hard pressed against the outside of his ankle, and the room was darker than his bedroom should have been at six in the morning. Then consciousness assembled itself around him. Living room. Couch. Laptop on the coffee table. One lamp still burning near the windows. Rain. Lucas Harper. Elliot. Ronan blinked at the empty space against his chest. That was the cold part. Elliot wasn't there. The blanket they'd dragged over themselves sometime after midnight had slipped halfway onto the floor. Ronan's arm lay stretched across the cushion where Elliot's waist had been when he'd fallen asleep. The upholstery still held a shallow depression.

He lifted his head.

“Elliot?”

Silence. Ronan sat up slowly. Pain pulled through his neck.

“Fuck.”

He rubbed the muscle below his ear and looked toward the staircase. No light upstairs. The carriage house had the particular silence of a place where nobody else was awake. The refrigerator hummed behind him. Water moved faintly through one of the old gutters outside. Somewhere in the walls, heating pipes clicked as the system turned itself on. Ronan checked his phone. 6:38. Seven missed notifications. None from Elliot. He stood. The hardwood floor was freezing beneath his bare feet.

“Elliot?”

Nothing. Probably upstairs. Ronan climbed the stairs. Elliot's bedroom door stood slightly open. He pushed it wider. Empty. The bed had not been slept in. Ronan stopped. Sheets smooth. Pillows exactly where Elliot left them every morning because he was one of those psychopaths who somehow managed not to destroy a bed while sleeping. Except he hadn't slept there. Ronan crossed the hallway. Bathroom empty. His own bedroom empty. He looked downstairs again. Something unpleasant tightened in his chest.

“Elliot?”

Still nothing. Ronan descended faster. The back door was locked. He checked it anyway. Deadbolt engaged. Then the front. Also locked. His eyes moved toward the hooks beside it. Elliot's coat hung there. His shoes sat beneath the bench. Ronan frowned. Then noticed the green hoodie was missing. He pulled out his phone. Called. The sound started upstairs. Ronan looked toward the ceiling. Elliot's phone. Fuck. He ended the call. His irritation arrived quickly enough to cover the worry. Mostly.

“Where the fuck did you go?”

He walked into the kitchen. That was when he saw the mug. Black ceramic. Still sitting beside the sink. Steam no longer rose from it, but when Ronan wrapped his fingers around the side, the ceramic was warm. Not hot. Warm. Someone had used it recently. Ronan stared. The back door opened. He spun around. Elliot stepped inside. Cold gray morning light framed him in the doorway. Dark green hoodie. Black running pants. Running shoes damp with water. His hair was wet at the temples, and his cheeks were pink from the cold. Ronan's first emotion was relief. His second was annoyance that he'd felt the first one.