Chapter Fifteen — Ask Me Again
ELLIOT
Elliot had imagined Ronan discovering the truth before.
More times than he wanted to admit. The scenarios changed depending on his mood.
Sometimes Ronan found the mask. Sometimes he followed Elliot.
Sometimes Detective Vance arrived with handcuffs and evidence and enough certainty that lying became pointless.
Once, during a particularly boring lecture, Elliot had imagined simply telling him.
Sitting across from Ronan at the kitchen island and saying the words plainly.
I killed them. He had never imagined this.
Ronan standing three feet away with his phone in one hand and doubt written openly across his face.
That hurt more than Elliot expected. Ask your brother where he was when Mason screamed.
The message remained on the screen between them.
Elliot couldn't stop looking at it. Not because it frightened him.
Because somebody knew. Not everything. Maybe.
But enough. Enough to know Mason had screamed.
Enough to know Elliot had been there. Enough to know Ronan was the pressure point.
That was the part Elliot couldn't understand.
If whoever sent the message wanted Elliot exposed, they could have contacted Vance directly. They hadn't. They contacted Ronan. Why?
“Elliot.”
He looked up. Ronan's expression had hardened.
“Where were you?”
There it was. The question. Elliot laughed softly. Wrong reaction. He knew immediately. Ronan's eyes narrowed.
“Don't.”
“What do you want me to say?”
“The truth.”
“You already know.”
“Do I?”
That one hurt. Elliot looked away. Ronan stepped closer.
“The night Mason died.”
“Yes.”
“Where were you?”
“Home.”
“When?”
“All night.”
Ronan stared. Elliot stared back.
“Ask me again.”
“What?”
“Ask.”
Ronan's jaw tightened.
“Where were you when Mason Kerr died?”
“Home.”
Again.
“Where were you when he screamed?”
“Home.”
“Again.”
Ronan froze. Elliot hadn't meant to say it. The word had simply come. Ronan stared at him.
“What?”
Elliot's pulse quickened.
“Ask me again.”
Something changed in Ronan's face. Not suspicion. Anger.
“Stop fucking playing with me.”
“I'm not.”
“You are.”
“Then ask.”
Ronan stepped forward until almost no space remained between them.
“Where were you when Mason screamed?”
Elliot looked directly into his eyes.
“Home.”
Ronan grabbed his shirt. Elliot's back hit the wall.
Hard enough to rattle the framed photograph hanging beside them.
Neither moved. Ronan's fist remained twisted in the fabric over Elliot's chest. Elliot's heartbeat slammed beneath it.
There. That was familiar. Anger. Pressure.
Ronan close enough that Elliot could feel his breathing. Anything except that fucking doubt.
“Don't lie to me.”
Elliot swallowed.
“Then don't ask questions you don't want answered.”
Ronan went still. Elliot realized his mistake. Again.
“What does that mean?”
“Nothing.”
“Fuck that word.”
Ronan released him abruptly. Elliot almost hated the loss of contact. Ronan backed away.
“Tell me something.”
“What?”
“Did Mason scream?”
Elliot's stomach dropped. He said nothing. Ronan stared.
“How would whoever sent that know?”
“I don't know.”
“Did the news say he screamed?”
“No.”
The answer escaped automatically. Ronan froze. Fuck. Elliot closed his eyes.
“How do you know?”
“I read everything.”
“Was it reported?”
“I don't remember.”
“You just said no.”
“I assumed.”
“No.”
Ronan shook his head.
“You didn't assume.”
Elliot pushed away from the wall. Ronan moved between him and the stairs. Not threatening. Blocking. Elliot noticed anyway.
“Move.”
“No.”
“Ronan.”
“Did Mason scream?”
Elliot stared. The memory arrived before he could stop it.
Mason beneath him. Blood. Hands slipping against wet pavement.
The mask narrowing Elliot's vision. Mason realizing nobody was coming.
Then the sound. Not dramatic. Not cinematic.
Human. Terrified. Elliot had expected to enjoy it. He hadn't. That had surprised him.
“Elliot.”
He blinked. Ronan was watching him. Too closely.
“Yes.”
Silence. Ronan's face changed. Elliot immediately corrected.
“He probably did.”
“No.”
“What?”
“You weren't guessing.”
“I was.”
“No, you fucking weren't.”
Ronan stepped backward. That was worse than coming closer. Elliot felt panic sharpen beneath his ribs.
“Where are you going?”
“Away from you for five fucking minutes.”
“No.”
Ronan laughed.
“Excuse me?”
“No.”
“Move.”
“You're the one blocking me.”
Ronan looked toward the stairs, then back.
“I'm going outside.”
“No.”
“Stop telling me no.”
“I don't want you outside.”
“Why?”
Because somebody is watching. Because somebody knows. Because somebody wants you alone. Because I can control what happens inside this house and I can't control what waits beyond it.
“Because of the messages.”
Ronan's anger faltered. Elliot continued.
“We don't know who's sending them.”
“I'll stay on the property.”
“No.”
“Elliot.”
“Please.”
The word changed everything. Ronan stopped. Elliot hated using it. He hated needing anything enough to ask. Ronan's expression softened by a fraction.
“Fine.”
Relief came too quickly.
“Thank you.”
“I'm going upstairs.”
Elliot nodded. Ronan started toward the staircase. Then stopped. He looked back.
“Give me the mask.”
Everything inside Elliot stopped.
“What?”
“The mask.”
“I don't have it.”
“Where is it?”
“I don't know.”
Ronan laughed once.
“Of course.”
“You've searched my room.”
“I searched part of your room.”
“Search the rest.”
Elliot immediately regretted it. Ronan stared. Then turned. Elliot followed him upstairs.
“What are you doing?”
“Taking you up on the offer.”
“Ronan.”
“You said search.”
“I was making a point.”
“So am I.”
Ronan entered Elliot's bedroom. Elliot stopped in the doorway.
For the first time, the room looked dangerous.
Not because the mask was there. It wasn't. Because pieces of Elliot were everywhere.
Books. Notebooks. Receipts. Clothes. Drawers.
Objects with histories Ronan might remember differently than Elliot expected.
Ronan opened the closet. Elliot leaned against the doorframe.
“You're actually doing this.”
“Yes.”
“That's insane.”
“So are anonymous messages about murdered men screaming.”
Ronan searched the top shelf. Shoeboxes. Winter clothes. A backpack. Nothing. Elliot watched every movement.
“Under the bed?” Ronan asked.
“Go ahead.”
Ronan crouched. Nothing. Desk drawers. Nothing. Nightstand. Nothing. Then Ronan reached for the bottom dresser drawer. Elliot moved. Too quickly. Ronan noticed. His hand stopped.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
Ronan stared at him. Then opened it. Clothes. A few old photographs. Condoms. Lube. A black leather collar. Ronan's eyebrows lifted. Elliot folded his arms.
“Happy?”
Ronan picked up the collar. Elliot's pulse shifted for an entirely different reason.
“Forgot about this.”
“I didn't.”
Ronan looked at him. The suspicion remained. So did something else. History. Heat. The violent intimacy that had always existed between them before either had been willing to name it. Ronan set the collar down.
“Not now.”
Elliot hated how much that disappointed him.
“Obviously.”
Ronan closed the drawer.
“Mask isn't here.”
“I told you.”
“That doesn't prove anything.”
“No. Apparently nothing does.”
Ronan stood. Elliot remained in the doorway. Neither moved. The room suddenly felt too small. Ronan looked tired. Elliot could handle anger. He could handle interrogation. He couldn't handle that.
“Do you actually think I killed Mason?”
Ronan's eyes met his. Long silence.
“Tell me no.”
“What?”
“Tell me you didn't.”
Elliot's throat tightened. Ronan stepped closer.
“One sentence.”
Elliot knew exactly what he wanted. He could give it to him. He had lied thousands of times. Small lies. Large lies. Useful lies. Cruel lies. Why did this one feel different? Ronan stopped in front of him.
“Tell me you didn't kill Mason Kerr.”
Elliot looked at him.
“I didn't kill Mason Kerr.”
Ronan searched his face. Elliot didn't blink. Seconds passed. Then Ronan exhaled. The tension in his shoulders loosened. He believed him. Elliot felt sick. Not guilt. Something worse. Relief. Ronan touched his face. Elliot closed his eyes.
“You're a fucking nightmare.”
“I know.”
“I hate this.”
“I know.”
“I hate doubting you.”
Elliot opened his eyes.
“Then don't.”
Ronan laughed quietly.
“You make that difficult.”
“I'll try harder.”
The promise was worthless. They both pretended otherwise. Ronan's thumb moved across Elliot's cheek. Elliot leaned into the touch before he could stop himself. Ronan noticed. Of course.
“You scared?”
“No.”
“Liar.”
“Yes.”
The honesty surprised both of them. Ronan's hand moved to the back of his neck.
“Of whoever's sending the messages?”
Elliot looked at him.
“No.”
Ronan frowned.
“Then what?”
“You.”
His hand stilled.
“Me?”
Elliot nodded.
“Losing you.”
Something in Ronan's expression broke. Not completely. Enough. He pulled Elliot forward. The kiss wasn't soft. It wasn't supposed to be. Elliot grabbed Ronan’s shirt and kissed him harder, all the fear and anger and frustration collapsing into something physical because physical things were easier. Ronan backed him toward the bed. Elliot bit his lower lip hard enough that Ronan made a low sound against his mouth. That sound changed the room. Ronan’s hand tightened in Elliot’s hair.
“Don’t start something because you’re scared.”
Elliot looked at him.
“I’m not.”
“Bullshit.”
“Then make me stop.”
Ronan stared. Elliot could see the decision happening. The hesitation. The concern. The want.
“Tell me what you want,” Ronan said.
Elliot’s pulse jumped.
“You.”
“That’s not enough.”
“Since when?”
“Since right now.”
Ronan’s hand remained at the back of his neck. Elliot understood. After the accusations. After the fear. After everything. Clear. Deliberate.
“Yes.”
“Yes what?”
“I want you.”
Ronan searched his face.
“Because you want me. Not because you think it’ll make me stop asking questions.”
Elliot almost smiled.
“It won’t.”
“No.”