Chapter Seven — The Last Person to See Him
RONAN
Ronan woke because he was cold. For several seconds, he didn't understand why.
His neck hurt. His left arm had gone numb beneath him.
Something hard pressed against the outside of his ankle, and the room was darker than his bedroom should have been at six in the morning.
Then consciousness assembled itself around him.
Living room. Couch. Laptop on the coffee table.
One lamp still burning near the windows.
Rain. Lucas Harper. Elliot. Ronan blinked at the empty space against his chest. That was the cold part.
Elliot wasn't there. The blanket they'd dragged over themselves sometime after midnight had slipped halfway onto the floor.
Ronan's arm lay stretched across the cushion where Elliot's waist had been when he'd fallen asleep.
The upholstery still held a shallow depression.
He lifted his head.
“Elliot?”
Silence. Ronan sat up slowly. Pain pulled through his neck.
“Fuck.”
He rubbed the muscle below his ear and looked toward the staircase.
No light upstairs. The carriage house had the particular silence of a place where nobody else was awake.
The refrigerator hummed behind him. Water moved faintly through one of the old gutters outside.
Somewhere in the walls, heating pipes clicked as the system turned itself on.
Ronan checked his phone. 6:38. Seven missed notifications.
None from Elliot. He stood. The hardwood floor was freezing beneath his bare feet.
“Elliot?”
Nothing. Probably upstairs. Ronan climbed the stairs.
Elliot's bedroom door stood slightly open.
He pushed it wider. Empty. The bed had not been slept in.
Ronan stopped. Sheets smooth. Pillows exactly where Elliot left them every morning because he was one of those psychopaths who somehow managed not to destroy a bed while sleeping.
Except he hadn't slept there. Ronan crossed the hallway.
Bathroom empty. His own bedroom empty. He looked downstairs again.
Something unpleasant tightened in his chest.
“Elliot?”
Still nothing. Ronan descended faster. The back door was locked.
He checked it anyway. Deadbolt engaged. Then the front.
Also locked. His eyes moved toward the hooks beside it.
Elliot's coat hung there. His shoes sat beneath the bench.
Ronan frowned. Then noticed the green hoodie was missing.
He pulled out his phone. Called. The sound started upstairs.
Ronan looked toward the ceiling. Elliot's phone.
Fuck. He ended the call. His irritation arrived quickly enough to cover the worry. Mostly.
“Where the fuck did you go?”
He walked into the kitchen. That was when he saw the mug.
Black ceramic. Still sitting beside the sink.
Steam no longer rose from it, but when Ronan wrapped his fingers around the side, the ceramic was warm.
Not hot. Warm. Someone had used it recently.
Ronan stared. The back door opened. He spun around.
Elliot stepped inside. Cold gray morning light framed him in the doorway.
Dark green hoodie. Black running pants. Running shoes damp with water.
His hair was wet at the temples, and his cheeks were pink from the cold.
Ronan's first emotion was relief. His second was annoyance that he'd felt the first one.
“Where the fuck were you?”
Elliot stopped. His eyes moved from Ronan to the coffee mug in his hand.
“Running.”
“At six in the morning?”
“Yes.”
“You don't run.”
“I run.”
“You own running shoes.”
“Generally useful for running.”
“Don't be a smartass.”
Elliot closed the door. The deadbolt clicked.
“I couldn't sleep.”
“So you went jogging?”
“Yes.”
“In the dark.”
“The sun came up.”
“You left your phone.”
Elliot glanced toward the stairs.
“Accident.”
Ronan stared at him. Elliot stared back. A faint line of perspiration darkened the collar of his hoodie despite the cold. He looked exactly like someone who had gone running. That should have ended it. Instead Ronan asked, “How long?” Elliot's eyebrows lifted.
“What?”
“How long were you gone?”
“I don't know.”
“You don't know?”
“Forty minutes?”
Ronan looked at the mug. Elliot followed his gaze again.
“You made coffee first.”
“Yes.”
“So you woke up, made coffee, drank it, changed, went running, and came back without me waking up.”
“You sleep like you're dead.”
“Comforting choice of words.”
Something flickered across Elliot's face. Then disappeared.
“Sorry.”
Ronan set the mug down. The irritation remained, but the sharpest part of it dulled.
“You could've left a note.”
Elliot blinked.
“A note?”
“Yes.”
“I'm twenty-one.”
“Congratulations.”
“I don't need permission to leave the house.”
“I didn't say permission.”
“You're acting like I escaped.”
“You vanished after we spent half the night talking about a missing fucking student.”
There. That landed. Elliot's expression softened.
“Ronan.”
“What?”
“I'm fine.”
“I can see that.”
“So?”
“So don't do stupid shit.”
Elliot pulled the hood over his head. The gesture made him look younger. Almost irritatingly so.
“You worried about me?”
“No.”
Elliot smiled.
“Liar.”
Ronan hated that word when Elliot used it. Mostly because Elliot was usually right.
“Go shower.”
“Yes, Dad.”
“Call me that again and I'm throwing you outside.”
Elliot laughed. He moved toward the staircase. Ronan watched him. Halfway there, Elliot stopped.
“What?”
Ronan looked at his shoes. Mud darkened the soles. Not unusual. Everything outside was mud right now. But a thin reddishbrown smear marked the outer edge of the left shoe. Ronan frowned.
“Your shoe.”
Elliot looked down.
“What about it?”
“You stepped in something.”
Elliot lifted his foot slightly. The smear had already dried.
“Probably mud.”
“Looks like clay.”
“So?”
“Nothing.”
Elliot looked at him. Ronan looked back. For a second, neither spoke. Then Elliot smiled.
“Coffee?”
Ronan sighed.
“Yeah.”
“I'll make it after I shower.”
“You already made coffee.”
“That one is probably disgusting now.”
“You made one cup?”
“Yes.”
“For yourself?”
“Usually how cups work.”
Ronan gave him the finger. Elliot grinned and disappeared upstairs.
The shower started three minutes later. Ronan stood in the kitchen listening to water move through pipes.
His gaze returned to the back door. Then the mug.
Then the faint wet footprints Elliot had left across the floorboards.
Completely normal. Nothing about any of it mattered.
He knew that. Still, he picked up his phone and checked the weather.
Sunrise had been at 6:23. Ronan looked toward the staircase.
Elliot had come through the door at 6:42.
If he'd been running for forty minutes, most of it had been in darkness. He closed the weather app.
“Stop.”
The word sounded stupid spoken aloud. Ronan tossed his phone onto the island.
He was becoming paranoid. Mason Kerr had been murdered.
Lucas Harper was missing. Bellweather had collectively lost its fucking mind, and apparently Ronan had decided to participate.
Elliot went running. That was it. Nothing else.
By nine fifteen, Merrick State had sent its own safety advisory.
Ronan read it while sitting in the back row of Architectural Systems II pretending to care about load distribution.
Merrick State University is aware of the ongoing investigation involving Bellweather University students and is coordinating with local authorities.
Students are encouraged to remain vigilant when traveling between campuses.
He deleted the notification. Thirty seconds later, Dylan texted.
DYLAN: cops want me to come back in
Ronan stared.
RONAN: why
The typing indicator appeared.
DYLAN: apparently i was last person to see lucas
Ronan straightened. Professor Monroe continued speaking at the front of the room. Ronan ignored him.
RONAN: explain
Dylan took almost a minute.
DYLAN: he was at tap tuesday
DYLAN: left around midnight
DYLAN: i walked outside with him
DYLAN: talked for like five mins
RONAN: about what
Pause.
DYLAN: nothing
Ronan immediately typed:
RONAN: bullshit
Three dots.
DYLAN: he was pissed
RONAN: about what
Another pause. Longer.
DYLAN: call me after class
Ronan's stomach tightened. He glanced at the clock. 9:19. Class ended at ten forty-five. Fuck that. He shoved his notebook into his bag. The guy sitting beside him whispered, “Where are you going?”
“Emergency.”
Professor Monroe looked toward the sound.
“Mr. Vale?”
Ronan stood.
“Sorry.”
“Is everything all right?”
“Yeah.”
Clearly not convincing. Ronan didn't particularly care. He left. Dylan answered on the second ring.
“What?”
Ronan stepped into the concrete stairwell.
“What happened Tuesday?”
Dylan sighed.
“Jesus. Hello to you too.”
“Why was Lucas pissed?”
“I don't know.”
“You literally just said you talked to him.”
“That doesn't mean he gave me his fucking diary.”
Ronan started down the stairs.
“What did he say?”
“He'd gotten into some shit.”
“What shit?”
“I don't know.”
“Dylan.”
“I'm serious.”
Ronan stopped on the landing. The stairwell smelled faintly of wet coats and concrete dust.
“What did police ask you?”
“Where he went after we talked. Whether anybody was waiting for him. Whether he mentioned meeting someone.”
“Did he?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
“Then what are you not telling me?”