Chapter Six — Missing
RONAN
The second person disappeared
twelve days after Mason Kerr died. Ronan heard about it while standing barefoot in the carriage-house kitchen with a half-finished
architecture model spread across the island and a piece of
basswood glued to his thumb.
“Fuck.”
He pulled his hand away too quickly. The narrow strip snapped in half. Ronan stared at it. Then at the glue drying across the pad of his thumb.
“Perfect.”
Rain ticked softly against the windows. It had been raining on and off for three days, never hard enough to become a storm, just a constant cold drizzle that made Bellweather feel damp all the way through.
The backyard beyond the windows had turned black beneath the early November darkness, the grass slick with water and fallen leaves plastered against the stone path leading toward the main house.
Ronan wiped his thumb against a rag. Didn't help.
The glue only spread. His phone vibrated beside the cutting mat.
He ignored it. Another vibration followed. Then another.
“Jesus Christ.”
He grabbed the phone. Three messages from Dylan. Ronan nearly put it back down. Then he saw the first one.
DYLAN: you seen lucas today?
Ronan frowned. He opened the thread.
DYLAN: you seen lucas today?
DYLAN: serious question
DYLAN: nobody can find him
Ronan stared. Lucas. He knew two Lucases. Neither well.
RONAN: which lucas
The response came immediately.
DYLAN: harper
Ronan knew him. Not personally. Bellweather guy.
Twentytwo, maybe. Tall. Red hair. Finance major.
Always at Dylan's parties because apparently business majors traveled in packs.
Ronan had spoken to him exactly once. Lucas had asked whether Ronan's tattoos hurt.
Ronan had told him no because he'd been born with them.
Lucas had believed him for a concerning amount of time.
RONAN: no
Three dots appeared.
DYLAN: he didn't show for class today
DYLAN: roommate says he wasn't home last night
RONAN: maybe he's with someone
There was a pause.
DYLAN: phone is off
Ronan leaned against the island. His eyes moved toward the staircase.
Elliot was upstairs. Or should have been.
He'd come home twenty minutes earlier, tossed his coat across the couch despite repeatedly bitching at Ronan for doing the same thing, then disappeared into his bedroom without much explanation.
Normal enough. Probably. Ronan looked back at the messages.
RONAN: doesn't mean he's missing
DYLAN: roommate called his parents
DYLAN: his car is still here
DYLAN: after mason this is freaking everybody out
Ronan understood that. Bellweather hadn't recovered from Mason.
For almost two weeks, the murder had existed everywhere.
On television. In classrooms. In coffee-shop conversations.
On the university's social-media pages. Police cruisers had become a permanent feature near the campus entrances.
Temporary lights had been installed along several darker pedestrian paths.
Bellweather University had extended its evening shuttle service and started sending campus-safety alerts so frequently that students complained about them while simultaneously screenshotting everyone.
The mask had become worse. That fucking mask.
Someone had printed it on stickers. Another student account used it as a profile picture until enough people called them disgusting that they took it down.
There were theories everywhere. Mason had been killed over fraternity hazing. Mason had been selling drugs.
Mason had slept with someone's girlfriend.
Mason had owed money. Mason knew something he shouldn't.
The masked killer was a student. The masked killer was forty.
The masked killer was a professor. The masked killer didn't exist and the security footage was unrelated.
Ronan had stopped reading any of it after the third day.
Elliot hadn't. That part had bothered him.
Not enough to become a problem. Enough to notice.
Ronan had caught him scrolling through discussion threads twice.
Once at breakfast. Once in bed. When Ronan asked why, Elliot had given the same answer both times.
People are interesting. Ronan supposed that was true.
Elliot studied psychology. He noticed behavior.
He noticed everything. Usually Ronan liked that about him.
Sometimes it made him feel like a bug pinned beneath glass. His phone buzzed again.
DYLAN: his mom is coming here
Ronan typed.
RONAN: tell me if you hear anything
He set the phone down. For several seconds, the kitchen was silent except for rain and the quiet electrical hum from the refrigerator. Then floorboards creaked upstairs. Ronan looked toward the staircase.
“Elliot?”
No answer. He waited.
“Elliot.”
A door opened.
“What?”
Ronan could hear him but not see him.
“You know Lucas Harper?”
Silence. Brief. Maybe one second.
“Yeah.”
Ronan stared toward the landing.
“You heard?”
Elliot appeared at the top of the stairs. He'd changed into black sweatpants and a dark green hoodie. His hair was still damp around the temples from the rain, although Ronan hadn't heard the shower running.
“Heard what?”
“Apparently nobody can find him.”
Elliot descended. His expression gave nothing away. That wasn't unusual. Not yet.
“Since when?”
“Last night.”
Elliot reached the bottom.
“Who told you?”
“Dylan.”
Something moved across Elliot's face. There. Gone. Ronan caught it anyway.
“Of course.”
“Don't.”
“I didn't say anything.”
“You didn't need to.” Elliot walked into the kitchen.
His eyes dropped to the architecture model.
Then the broken piece of basswood. “You snapped it.” “Thank you.” “You spent forty minutes measuring that.” “Again. Thank you.” Elliot picked up the broken strip.
Ronan held out his hand. “Don't.” Elliot gave it to him.
“Why can't anyone find Lucas?” “I don't know.” “Phone?” “Off.” “Car?” “At home.” Elliot leaned against the island.
“Roommate?” “Hasn't seen him.” Ronan watched him.
Elliot looked interested. Not afraid. Not upset.
Interested. Same as Mason. Ronan hated that his mind supplied the comparison.
“What?” Elliot asked. “Nothing.” “There it is.” “What?” “You're staring at me.” “So?” “So why?” Ronan looked down at the model.
“Just weird.” “What is?” “Another guy from Bellweather disappearing.” Elliot folded his arms. “He's probably not missing.” “Dylan thinks he is.” “Dylan thinks a lot of things.” “You really hate him.” “I don't hate him.” “You do.” Elliot smiled faintly. “Maybe a little.”
Ronan shook his head. He reached for another strip of basswood. His thumb stuck slightly to it.
“Fuck.”
Elliot laughed.
“You glued yourself.”
“Apparently.”
“Give me your hand.”
“No.”
“Ronan.”
“Why?”
“Because you're going to rip your skin off.”
“I'll survive.”
“You're incredibly dramatic.”
Elliot moved around the island. Ronan watched him reach for his hand. The contact was ordinary. Mostly. Elliot turned Ronan's palm upward and inspected the glue. His fingertips were cool.
“You need acetone.”
“Wonderful.”
“I have some upstairs.”
Ronan raised an eyebrow.
“Why?”
“Nail polish remover.”
“You own nail polish remover?”
“Claire left it.”
“Of course she did.”
Elliot released his hand. Then his eyes caught on something. Ronan followed his gaze. A fading bite mark remained near the inside of his wrist. Barely visible now. Elliot's thumb brushed over it. Ronan looked at him.
“Really?”
“What?”
“You're admiring your work again.”
“It healed.”
“That tends to happen.”
Elliot's expression became almost disappointed. Ronan laughed.
“You're fucked up.”
“So you've said.”
“Frequently.”
Elliot lifted his eyes.
“Still like me.”
“Against medical advice.”
Elliot smiled. There was the version Ronan knew.
The private one. Not entirely sweet. Not entirely mean.
Something in between. His. The thought appeared before Ronan could stop it.
His. He hated when Elliot's possessiveness infected him.
Or maybe infected was the wrong word. Maybe Elliot had simply made it easier to admit the things Ronan already felt.
The phone on the counter vibrated. Elliot looked toward it.
Dylan again. Ronan saw his expression close.
There it was. The jealousy. Instant. Reliable. Ronan picked up the phone.
DYLAN: campus police here now
Then another message.
DYLAN: dude this is bad
Ronan's stomach tightened. He showed Elliot. Elliot read.
“Campus police doesn't mean homicide.”
“I didn't say it did.”
“You're thinking it.”
“So are you.”
Elliot handed the phone back.
“No.”
“You're not?”
“I think everyone's going to connect it to Mason whether there's a connection or not.”
Ronan stared.
“That's an oddly clinical way to put it.”
“It's true.”
“You don't think it's weird?”
“Of course it's weird.”
“You don't seem bothered.”
Elliot exhaled through his nose.
“Here we go again.”
“What?”
“Everyone deciding I'm reacting wrong.”
“I didn't say wrong.”
“You implied it.”
Ronan leaned back against the counter.
“Fine. Explain.”
“Explain what?”
“How you're reacting.”
Elliot stared. Ronan immediately realized how ridiculous that sounded. He rubbed one hand over his face.
“Forget it.”
“No.”
“Elliot.”
“No, you wanted an explanation.”
Ronan sighed. Elliot's voice remained calm.
“I didn't know Mason. I barely know Lucas. I'm not going to perform grief because everyone else expects me to.”
“I don't want you to perform anything.”
“Then what do you want?”
“Nothing.”
“That isn't true.”
Ronan looked at him. There was irritation in Elliot's face now. Real irritation. Good. Strangely, that made Ronan feel better.
“I want you to stop looking at murders like they're a fucking research project.”
Silence. Elliot's eyes sharpened.
“You think that's what I'm doing?”
“Sometimes.”
“Because I read about the investigation?”
“Because you read everything.”
“It's interesting.”
“A man died.”
“I know.”