Chapter Thirty-Six — The Favorite #2
“Find Lena.” Vance immediately called it in. Ronan returned to Elliot’s table. No project number beneath his name. Instead:
THE FAVORITE. Ronan stared. There it was. Nathan had not imagined it. Saint really called Elliot that. His stomach turned. Below it:
ELLIOT MERCER Then: OBSERVATION BEGAN: MAY 2023 Three years.
Then: CONTACT ESTABLISHED: FEbrUARY 2025 Almost two years of observation before Saint ever messaged him.
Ronan felt cold. Saint had watched Elliot become an adult.
Watched his family. His relationships. His habits.
Then entered his life deliberately. Vance read over his shoulder.
“This changes things.” “No shit.” Ronan scanned the documents. Psychological notes. Pages. Hundreds. He caught fragments.
High social desirability. Compulsive image management.
Possessive attachment. Suppressed aggression.
Elevated response to humiliation. Protective fixation.
Then: Primary attachment candidate identified.
Ronan’s stomach dropped. He followed the notation.
A photograph. Him. No. Fuck. Saint had predicted it.
Before Ronan and Elliot ever touched each other.
Before either admitted anything. Saint had identified Ronan as the person Elliot would become obsessed with.
Vance looked at him. Ronan couldn’t speak.
Beneath his photograph: RONAN VALE — PRIMARY LEVER His skin crawled.
“No.” Vance said nothing. “Fuck him.” He turned away. Saint did not get that. Saint did not get to reduce them to prediction. Attachment candidate. Lever. No. Elliot loved him. Fucked-up. Possessive. Complicated. Still real. Ronan breathed. Choice. Remember. Saint could predict behavior.
Prediction wasn’t ownership. He looked again. Another note. More recent.
LEVER BECAME COMPETITOR. Ronan almost laughed.
“There.” Vance looked. “What?” “He’s jealous.
” “This is not funny.” “It’s a little funny.
” “Ronan.” “He literally wrote competitor.” Vance sighed.
Ronan smiled despite himself. “Psychopathic little bitch.” An evidence technician looked over.
Ronan stopped smiling. “Sorry.” Then he saw the envelope.
White. Centered on the table. RONAN Black ink.
His stomach tightened. Vance saw. “Don’t touch.
” “I know.” Technician photographed. Gloves.
Bag. Opened carefully. Inside: One sheet of paper.
And a key. Vance read first. Her face changed.
“What?” She handed Ronan a photocopy after the original was documented. Three lines.
YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO MAKE HIM WORSE. INSTEAD HE MADE YOU BETTER. I HATE YOU FOR THAT. Ronan stared. Silence. Saint finally said it. Not philosophy. Not manipulation. Not experiment. Hate. Personal. Ronan read it again. Then:
“Good.” Vance looked at him. “What?” “Let him hate me.” He folded the copy. “What’s the key?” Evidence technician held up the tagged original. Small brass key. Number engraved. 214. Vance frowned.
“Room?”
“Could be.” Ronan looked toward the corridor.
“This building had patient rooms?” “Yes.” “Two-fourteen.” Vance radioed.
Team moving. Ronan looked back at Elliot’s table.
Something bothered him. Seven tables. Three confirmed dead or missing.
Caleb survived. Nathan survived. Lena unknown.
Elliot current. But Saint was a serial killer.
Where was Adrian? Where was proof? He moved back toward Project One.
Daniel Hart. Drowning. Project Two. Mara Voss.
Overdose. Project Four. Isaac Rowe. Missing.
Different methods. Deaths could look accidental.
Failure. Saint cleaned up projects. Elliot killed targets.
Saint killed his own. That distinction felt worse.
“Vance.” “Yes?” “If Adrian killed the failed projects, where’s the evidence?
” “We don’t know that he did.” “He did.” “Ronan.” “Look.” He pointed.
“Failed.” Another. “Failed.” Another. “Failed.” “Could mean anything.” “No.” He stared at Daniel’s clipping.
“Saint doesn’t let people leave.” Caleb had escaped psychologically.
But not cleanly. Suicide attempt. Years of damage.
Nathan remained trapped. Isaac disappeared.
Mara died. Daniel died. Saint needed control until the end. Ronan looked toward Elliot’s table.
“What happens when the favorite fails?” Silence. Vance’s expression changed. Exactly. Elliot confessed. Elliot rejected Saint. Elliot chose Ronan. By Saint’s own system, Elliot had failed. Except Saint hadn’t written it. Not yet. Ronan’s chest tightened.
“Get Elliot moved again.” Vance shook her head.
“No.” “What?” “Moving him hasn’t worked.
” “So what?” “We secure the current location.” “Saint knows where it is.” “Yes.” “Then—” Her radio crackled.
“Detective.” She answered. “Go.” “Room two-fourteen located.” Ronan’s attention snapped toward her.
“And?” Pause. The officer sounded wrong.
“Ma’am, you need to see this.” Ronan hated those words.
Room 214 had no door. Not anymore. Someone had removed it years ago.
The room itself looked like every abandoned patient room Ronan had imagined.
Small. Concrete. One barred window. Rusting bed frame.
Closet. Except the closet had a new lock.
Brass. Key 214. Vance inserted it. Ronan stood behind her.
Two tactical officers flanked the doorway.
“Back up,” Vance said. Ronan did. Barely. The lock opened. Vance pulled the closet door. Nothing happened. Stuck. One officer forced it. The door opened. Darkness. Not closet. Stairs. Down. Ronan stared.
“Secret basement beneath the basement.” Vance looked exhausted. “I hate this building.” “Finally something we agree on.” Lights went first. Officers. Then Vance. Ronan was told to remain upstairs. He did. For forty-three seconds. Then Vance called.
“Ronan.” He looked down the stairs. “What?” “Come down.” That was worse than being told to stay. He descended. The staircase ended in a narrow underground corridor. Old service
tunnels. Pipes. Concrete. At the end: Another room.
Modern. Clean. Powered. Ronan entered. And finally saw Saint.
Not Adrian himself. His life. Computers.
Monitors. Hard drives. Files. Weapons. Clothing.
Masks. Dozens of disposable phones. The entire infrastructure.
One wall covered with photographs of the seven projects.
Another with newspaper clippings. And centered above everything: A photograph of Adrian Cross.
Current. Twenty-nine. Same pale eyes. Same thin face.
Older than the missing-person image. Alive. Beneath it, handwritten:
SAINT Ronan stared. “There.” Vance came beside him. No qualifier now. “Adrian Cross.” “Saint.” “Yes.” Proof. Finally. An evidence technician moved toward the computers. Another officer opened a cabinet. Then froze.
“Detective.” Vance turned. Inside were personal belongings.
Wallets. Watches. Phones. IDs. Daniel Hart.
Mara Voss. Isaac Rowe. Trophies. Ronan’s stomach turned.
Saint had killed them. Maybe not enough for court yet.
Enough for Ronan. Then the officer pulled out a clear evidence-style bag.
Inside: A length of blue cord. Dark staining.
A photograph attached. Daniel Hart. Another bag.
Medication bottles. Mara Voss. Another. Bloodstained shirt.
Isaac Rowe. Vance went silent. Ronan stared.
Saint didn’t merely create killers. Saint killed the projects who stopped playing. Serial killer. Confirmed.
“Jesus.” Then an alarm sounded. Not building alarm.
Computer. Every monitor turned on simultaneously.
Seven screens. Seven project numbers. One by one, they went black.
Project One. Black. Two. Black. Three. Black.
Four. Black. Five. Black. Six. Black. Then Seven.
Elliot’s photograph filled every screen.
Ronan stopped breathing. Not PROJECT SEVEN.
FAVORITE. Then text appeared. HE WAS NEVER SUPPOSED TO CONFESS. Ronan stared. Another line. YOU DID THAT. His jaw tightened.
“No.” Vance looked toward him. Ronan knew Saint could hear.
Good. “You don’t get to give me credit for his choice.
” Pause. Then: HE CHANGED FOR YOU. Ronan stepped closer to the monitor.
“He changed for himself.” Nothing. Then: LIAR.
Ronan smiled. There. Adrian angry. Good.
“You watched us for three years and still don’t understand him.
” The screens flickered. I UNDERSTAND EVERYTHING ABOUT HIM.
“No.” Ronan’s pulse steadied. “You understand what Elliot does when he’s scared.
” Silence. “What he does when he’s angry.
” Nothing. “What he does when he thinks nobody will love him if they know what he is.”
The screen remained still. Ronan continued. “You never figured out what he does when someone stays.” Long pause. Then every monitor went black. Ronan almost laughed. Vance looked at him.