Chapter Ten — Ask Ronan #2
The answer arrived in Ronan's head before he wanted it to.
Biting. Scratching. Not violence. Not like this.
Jealous rage. Slamming doors. Throwing one of Ronan's coffee mugs hard enough to break it after an argument last spring.
Once shoving Ronan against a wall. Ronan had kissed him two seconds later. Different. All of it different.
“No.”
Vance watched. Ronan knew he had hesitated.
“Not physically violent,” he clarified.
“What does that mean?”
“He gets angry.”
“Everyone gets angry.”
“Exactly.”
“Does he lose control?”
“No.”
That answer felt true. More true than anything else. Elliot almost never lost control. That was part of him. Even when furious, he became colder. Sharper. Still. Vance leaned back.
“Does he frighten you?”
Ronan laughed. Actually laughed.
“No.”
“Never?”
“No.”
“Do you think he's capable of hurting someone?”
Ronan's smile disappeared.
“What kind of question is that?”
“A simple one.”
“No, it isn't.”
“Answer however you interpret it.”
He stared at her. Everyone was capable of hurting someone.
Ronan knew that better than most. Elliot included.
He imagined the bite marks. The broken mug.
The threats. The way Elliot looked at Dylan.
Then the mask. White porcelain. Black eyes.
The image arrived so unexpectedly that Ronan felt something cold move down his back. He hated himself for it.
“No.”
Vance's pen moved. Ronan's irritation returned.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Bullshit.”
She looked up. He almost laughed at the familiarity of the word. Elliot's word. Ronan's now too.
“Do you think he's capable of killing someone?” Vance asked.
The room changed. Ronan felt it. Not dramatically. But enough. He stopped moving. There were questions people asked because protocol demanded them. Then there were questions that carried weight. This one had weight. He looked at Vance.
“You think Elliot killed them.”
“I didn't say that.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because you keep making conclusions.”
“You asked if he's capable of murder.”
“I'd ask the same about anyone close to both victims.”
“He wasn't close to them.”
“Close enough to be present.”
“That doesn't mean anything.”
“Maybe.”
Ronan's jaw clenched.
“No.”
Vance waited.
“No,” he repeated. “Elliot didn't kill anyone.”
“You sound certain.”
“I am.”
“Why?”
Because I know him. The answer rose instantly. It had been the foundation beneath every strange thought for weeks. The running. The map. The investigation. The car search. The mask. Every time suspicion attempted to form, Ronan crushed it beneath those four words. I know him. He looked at Vance.
“Because I know him.”
She studied him for a long moment. Then wrote something down. Ronan's chest tightened.
“What?”
“I didn't say anything.”
“Yeah. That's becoming a fucking theme.”
Vance closed the notebook.
“We're done for now.”
Ronan didn't move.
“That it?”
“For today.”
“Am I a suspect?”
Vance looked at him.
“No arrests have been made.”
“Not what I asked.”
“No.”
He waited. She didn't elaborate. Ronan stood. The chair scraped loudly against tile. His hand reached the door.
“Ronan.”
He turned. Vance remained seated.
“If you remember anything else about Elliot's interactions with Mason, Lucas, or Dylan, call me.”
There it was. Elliot again. Ronan stared.
“Ask Elliot.”
Vance's expression remained neutral.
“I have.”
“Then believe him.”
He opened the door.
“Do you?”
Ronan stopped. His hand tightened around the handle. He looked back. Vance hadn't moved.
“What?”
“Believe him.”
A strange pressure settled beneath his ribs. Ronan stared at her.
“Yes.”
He walked out. Elliot was sitting on the hood of Ronan's motorcycle when he exited the station. Ronan stopped.
“What the fuck are you doing here?”
Elliot looked up from his phone.
“Waiting.”
“I can see that.”
“Then why ask?”
Ronan crossed the parking lot. Cold wind cut between the buildings, lifting Elliot's hair from his forehead. He wore a charcoal coat over a dark green sweater, hands tucked into the sleeves against the cold. Ronan had never been so relieved and irritated to see someone at the same time.
“How'd you know I was here?”
“Your location.”
Ronan stared.
“My what?”
“You share it with me.”
“Since when?”
“Three years ago.”
“I do not.”
“You do.”
Ronan pulled out his phone. Elliot smiled.
“You genuinely forgot?”
“Apparently.”
“That's adorable.” “Why are you checking my location?” “I wasn't.” “Then how'd you know?” “Your dad told Mom you got called in.” Ronan closed his eyes.
“Of course.” “Our families are an intelligence network.” “Why'd you come?” Elliot looked at him.
“Because you were at the police station.” Simple.
Ronan felt irritation melt into something warmer despite himself.
“I'm fine.” “I can see that.” Elliot hopped off the motorcycle.
His gaze sharpened. “What did they ask?” Ronan hesitated.
There. Elliot saw it. “What?” “Nothing.” His eyes narrowed.
“Do not use that word with me.” Ronan almost laughed.
“Come on.” “No.” “Elliot.” “What did they ask?” Ronan looked toward the police-station windows.
Someone might be watching. The thought annoyed him.
“Let's go home.” “You're avoiding the question.” “Yes.” Elliot went still.
Ronan immediately realized admitting it had been a mistake.
“Why?” “Because I don't want to do this in a parking lot.” Elliot studied him.
Then nodded. “Fine.” Ronan handed him the spare helmet.
Elliot stared at it. “My car is here.” “Leave it.” “Why?” “Because I said so.”
Elliot's mouth twitched.
“You're bossy today.”
“Helmet.”
He took it. For once without argument. They drove home.
Elliot's arms stayed tighter around Ronan than usual.
Ronan noticed. He always noticed. The carriage house felt too quiet when they arrived.
Their parents were out. No television from the main house.
No cars in the drive. Clouds had darkened the afternoon enough that Ronan turned on lamps despite it being barely five.
Elliot took off his coat. Ronan stood near the kitchen. Neither spoke. Then Elliot said:
“What did she ask?”
Ronan exhaled.
“About Dylan.”
“That makes sense.”
“About me.”
Elliot's eyes sharpened.
“What about you?”
“Fights.”
“What fights?”
“Merrick shit.”
Elliot's expression changed.
“The Aaron thing?”
“Yeah.”
Anger appeared immediately. Real. That surprised Ronan.
“He deserved it.”
Ronan laughed softly.
“Probably not the response police would love.”
“He grabbed me.”
“I remember.”
“He left bruises.”
“I remember that too.”
Elliot looked away. Ronan watched his jaw tighten. Even years later. There. That possessiveness between them wasn't one-sided. Never had been.
“What else?” Elliot asked.
“Us.”
Silence. Elliot looked back. The room seemed to shrink.
“What about us?”
“They know.”
His face emptied. Ronan watched it happen.
“How?”
“Didn't say.”
“Who told them?”
“Didn't say.”
“Claire?”
“Maybe.”
“No.”
“Dylan?”
Ronan hesitated. Elliot caught it.
“He knows.”
“He suspects.”
“Same difference.”
“No, it isn't.”
Elliot began pacing. Three steps toward the couch. Turn. Back. Ronan had almost never seen him pace. That concerned him more than anger.
“Elliot.”
“What exactly did she say?”
“She asked whether Dylan and I slept together before or after you and I got involved.”
Elliot stopped. Ronan saw humiliation flash beneath the anger. Not shame about them. Exposure. Different.
“They know we're sleeping together.”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“I don't know.”
Elliot looked toward the windows. Ronan crossed the room.
“Hey.”
“Don't.”
Ronan stopped. Elliot dragged one hand through his hair.
“They're investigating murders and they know about us.”
“I know.”
“That gives them motive.”
Ronan went still. The sentence landed hard because Vance had used the same word.
“You thought of that fast.”
Elliot looked at him. Ronan immediately regretted it.
“Don't start.”
“I'm not.”
“You are.”