Chapter Eight — Nothing to Worry About
ELLIOT
There was nothing to worry about. Elliot repeated that to himself while standing beneath the shower until the water ran cold enough to make his skin ache.
Nothing to worry about. Lucas Harper's jacket had been found in Saint Augustine's Park.
That was inconvenient. Not catastrophic.
Inconvenient. The distinction mattered. Water struck the back of Elliot's neck and streamed between his shoulder blades.
Steam had already coated the bathroom mirror, turning his reflection into a pale blur behind the glass.
The room smelled like eucalyptus shampoo and the sharp mineral scent that came from Bellweather's ancient plumbing whenever the water ran too hot for too long.
Elliot tilted his head beneath the spray.
He could still hear voices downstairs. Dylan had not left.
That was irritating. The original plan had been simple.
Dinner. Dylan panicked. Ronan comforted him.
Eventually Dylan went home. Instead, Bellweather Police had called Dylan regarding Lucas's jacket and apparently transformed him into a permanent resident of the carriage house.
Elliot had endured another hour of him. Then another.
Now it was almost midnight. And Dylan was still downstairs with Ronan.
Elliot shut off the shower. Silence rushed in around him.
He stood dripping beneath the weak bathroom light and listened.
Nothing clearly audible. The carriage house was old enough that voices traveled unpredictably through it.
Someone could whisper downstairs and somehow sound as if they were standing beneath the bathtub, while a television playing at full volume occasionally disappeared entirely behind the walls.
Tonight, Elliot heard only the occasional rise and fall of conversation.
Ronan. Then Dylan. Ronan again. Elliot reached for a towel.
Nothing to worry about. He dried himself slowly.
Lucas's jacket complicated things because Saint Augustine's created a visible line between him and Mason.
Not Elliot. Lucas. Mason. That was what mattered.
Two Bellweather students. Same social orbit.
Same park. One confirmed dead. One missing.
People would connect them. Police would connect them.
Detective Vance already had. Of course she had.
Elliot had watched the press conference twice after coming upstairs.
Not because he was nervous. Because Vance interested him.
She was careful. Most people revealed their assumptions unconsciously.
They asked questions in ways that betrayed the answers they expected.
Their tone changed when they believed someone was lying.
Their faces tightened when presented with information that contradicted whatever theory they had already built.
Vance didn't do that. She gave away almost nothing.
Elliot respected it. Which was inconvenient too.
He wrapped the towel around his waist and wiped condensation from the mirror with his palm.
His face appeared. Twenty-one. Clean skin.
Wet dark-blond hair falling over his forehead.
Green-hazel eyes. Nothing particularly threatening.
Elliot leaned closer. He tried imagining himself through Vance's eyes.
Bellweather psychology student. Good grades.
No criminal record. Well-liked. Present at Mason Kerr's final party.
Knew Lucas Harper socially. Questioned voluntarily.
Cooperative. Polite. No obvious motive. No obvious connection beyond proximity.
The kind of person detectives interviewed because procedure demanded it, then moved past. That was what he should remain. Elliot stared into his own eyes.
“You're fine.”
His reflection agreed. He dressed. Black sleep pants.
White Tshirt. No hoodie. He opened the bathroom door.
Ronan's bedroom was empty. Elliot looked toward the stairs.
Dylan laughed below. Elliot stopped. It wasn't a loud laugh.
That made it worse. Comfortable. Relaxed.
The kind Dylan used when he forgot everything was falling apart.
Elliot descended. The living room lamps had been dimmed.
Dylan sat on the couch with one leg stretched across the rug.
Ronan occupied the armchair opposite him, beer bottle balanced loosely against one knee.
The television played silently. Local news.
Lucas Harper's photograph filled half the screen.
Of course. Dylan looked toward the staircase.
“Hey.”
Elliot smiled.
“Still here?”
Ronan's eyes narrowed. Dylan laughed.
“Told you he hates me.”
“I don't hate you.”
“You absolutely do.”
“See?” Ronan said.
Elliot ignored him. He walked into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator.
“What are you looking for?” Ronan asked.
“Food.”
“You ate.”
“Hours ago.”
“You had half my fries.”
“Because you weren't protecting them.”
Ronan shook his head. Elliot pulled out a container of leftover pasta. Dylan said, “Your mom cook that?” Elliot looked over the refrigerator door.
“No.”
“Ronan?”
“He's recently discovered boiling water.”
“Fuck you,” Ronan said.
Dylan smiled. Elliot hated that smile. He hated how easily Dylan occupied space. Some people entered a room as guests. Dylan entered as though everybody had been waiting for him. Elliot placed the container in the microwave.
“Police coming back tonight?” he asked.
Dylan's smile faded.
“No.”
“What'd they say?”
“Same shit.”
Ronan looked at Elliot. Warning. Elliot pretended not to notice.
“They ask why Lucas's jacket was there?”
Dylan rubbed his hands over his face.
“They asked if Lucas ever mentioned Saint Augustine's.”
“And?”
“No.”
“Did he go there?”
“Not that I know.”
The microwave hummed. Elliot watched the container rotate behind fogged glass.
“Then someone put it there.”
Silence. He looked back. Ronan stared at him. Dylan did too.
“What?”
Dylan spoke first.
“That's what the cops said.”
“Seems obvious.”
“They didn't say it like it was obvious.”
“How'd they say it?”
Ronan sighed.
“Elliot.”
“What?”
“Let him breathe.”
“I am.”
“You've asked him six questions in thirty seconds.”
Elliot turned back toward the microwave.
“Fine.”
Dylan laughed quietly.
“Psych major?”
“Unfortunately.”
“He always like this?”
“Yes,” Ronan said.
“No,” Elliot said simultaneously.
Dylan laughed harder. The microwave beeped.
Elliot removed the container. Steam carried the smell of garlic and tomato through the kitchen.
He grabbed a fork and leaned against the island rather than joining them.
The television changed. Security footage.
The mask. Elliot stopped chewing. The image had become familiar enough that seeing it no longer caused the sharp little jolt it had the first time.
White face. Black eyes. Cracked cheek. The caption beneath it read:
POLICE SEEK INFORMATION ON MASKED INDIVIDUAL
Dylan noticed.
“Whole fucking town is obsessed with that thing.”
Ronan looked toward the television.
“Yeah.”
“People are saying it was seen near Lucas's apartment.”
Elliot looked at Dylan.
“Who?”
“Internet.”
“Meaning nobody.”
“Probably.”
Dylan lifted his bottle.
“But if the jacket was at Augustine's...”
He didn't finish. Nobody needed him to. Ronan's gaze moved toward Elliot. Elliot noticed.
“Why do you keep looking at me?”
Ronan blinked.
“I wasn't.”
“You were.”
Dylan looked between them. Ronan took a drink.
“You're paranoid.”
Elliot smiled.
“That makes two of us.”
Ronan's jaw tightened slightly. Good. Elliot returned to eating.
For several minutes, conversation died. The television supplied images instead.
Bellweather police headquarters. Saint Augustine's Park.
Lucas smiling beside friends. Mason smiling beside different friends.
Flowers. Candles. Parents climbing into vehicles while cameras followed them.
Grief packaged neatly into thirty-second segments. Dylan's phone vibrated. He checked it.
“Fuck.”
“What?” Ronan asked.
“My mom.”
Ronan smiled faintly.
“Dangerous.”
“She thinks I'm involved.”
The smile disappeared. Elliot looked over. Dylan read the message again.
“She asked if I need a lawyer.”
“You probably should have one,” Elliot said.
Ronan turned.
“What?”
Elliot shrugged.
“If police keep questioning him.”
Dylan stared.
“You think?”
“Yes.”
“Elliot,” Ronan said.
“What?”
“Maybe don't tell him he needs a lawyer like he's about to be arrested.”
“I didn't.”
“You basically did.”
Dylan looked down at his phone.
“He might be right.”
Elliot took another bite. Of course he was right. Dylan's connection to both men made him useful. Not guilty. Useful. People liked convenient explanations. Police were still people. Even Detective Vance. Especially Detective Vance, perhaps.
“Do you have anything to hide?” Elliot asked.
Dylan looked up. Ronan said, “Jesus Christ.”
“What?”
Dylan laughed once.
“No.”
“Then a lawyer still isn't a bad idea.”
“You are the least comforting person I've ever met.”
“That isn't true.”
“Name someone worse.”
Elliot looked at Ronan. Ronan lifted both hands.
“Don't involve me.”
Dylan smiled again. Elliot finished his pasta.
He set the container in the sink. The back of his neck prickled.
He turned. Ronan was watching him. Again.
Not openly suspicious. Not even close. But differently.
Elliot had noticed the change yesterday.
Small. Subtle. Ronan watched him for a second too long now.
Asked where he'd been. Asked why he'd gone running.
Looked at his shoes. Nothing significant.
Unless it continued. Elliot hated uncertainty.
People called uncertainty mystery when they enjoyed it.
Elliot called it lack of information. He preferred information. He dried his hands.
“I'm going to bed.”
Ronan looked at the clock.
“Already?”
“Some of us have class.”
“Tomorrow's Friday.”
“Excellent observation.”