Chapter Nineteen — Which One?
RONAN
Ronan did not remember ending the call with Detective Vance.
One second her voice was coming through Elliot’s phone, telling him to step away from the storage-room door.
The next, the screen was dark in Elliot’s hand.
Ronan stood in the middle of the carriage house staring at him.
Elliot stared back. Neither moved. The narrow door beneath the stairs sat five feet away.
Closed. Ordinary. Ronan had walked past it hundreds of times.
Winter coats. Boxes. Tools. Christmas decorations.
Paint thinner. Model supplies. That was what lived behind it.
That was what was supposed to live behind it.
Not a mask. Not that mask. Not the white porcelain face Bellweather had been staring at for weeks. Ronan’s mouth felt dry.
“Open it.”
Elliot said nothing.
“Open the door.”
Still nothing. Ronan laughed once. The sound came out wrong. Thin. Almost breathless.
“Elliot.”
His stepbrother’s face had gone completely blank.
Not confused. Not offended. Not even frightened anymore.
Blank. The expression Ronan had once thought meant Elliot was shutting down.
Now he understood it differently. Control.
Elliot was deciding what happened next. That realization made Ronan’s stomach turn.
“Open the fucking door.”
Elliot looked toward it. Then back.
“No.”
Ronan felt something inside him snap. He crossed the room. Elliot moved immediately. His hand caught Ronan’s forearm.
“Don’t.”
Ronan jerked free.
“Get the fuck off me.”
“Ronan.”
“No.”
He reached for the handle. Elliot stepped between him and the door. Ronan stared.
“Move.”
“No.”
“Move.”
“I can explain.”
The words stopped everything. Ronan’s hand lowered. For several seconds, he heard nothing except his own heartbeat. Then:
“Explain what?”
Elliot swallowed. Ronan watched his throat move.
“Elliot.”
“I need you to listen.”
“To what?”
“Everything.”
Ronan laughed again. It sounded worse this time.
“Everything.”
“Yes.”
“How much fucking everything is there?”
Elliot didn’t answer. Ronan looked at the storage-room door. Then at him.
“Is the mask in there?”
Silence.
“Answer.”
“Yes.”
The room shifted. Not physically. Ronan felt it anyway.
A clean fracture through reality. Before that answer, there had still been room.
Room for confusion. Room for coincidence.
Room for whoever had been tormenting them to have planted everything.
Room for Elliot to be exactly what Ronan had spent weeks insisting he was. After it, there was less. Ronan stared.
“The mask from the footage?”
Elliot’s eyes moved.
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t fucking do that.”
“I mean it.”
“Is there a white porcelain mask in that room?”
“Yes.”
“Cracked?”
“Yes.”
“Black eyes?”
“Yes.”
“Stitched mouth?”
A pause.
“Yes.”
Ronan breathed through his nose. Slowly. His hands had started shaking. He curled them into fists.
“Where did you get it?”
“Online.”
“When?”
“Last year.”
“Why?”
Elliot looked away. Ronan’s stomach dropped.
“Why?”
“I liked it.”
“Bullshit.”
“I did.”
“You bought the exact fucking mask worn by the person who murdered Mason because you liked it?”
Elliot’s jaw tightened.
“No.”
Ronan stared. There. The sentence. The correction. Not exactly what Ronan had said.
“Then explain.”
Elliot closed his eyes. For one second, he looked twenty-one again. Young. Beautiful. Exhausted. Then he opened them.
“I bought the mask before Mason died.”
Ronan stopped breathing. The words entered his head slowly. He understood each one. Together they meant something else.
“Before.”
“Yes.”
“How long before?”
“Months.”
Ronan stepped backward. Elliot didn’t move.
“You had it before the murder.”
“Yes.”
“Did anyone else know?”
“No.”
“Anyone borrow it?”
“No.”
“Was it stolen?”
“No.”
Ronan felt cold spread through his chest.
“Then how the fuck is it on security footage?”
Elliot’s face changed. Tiny. Ronan saw it. The last possible lie trying to form.
“Don’t.”
Elliot looked at him.
“Do not fucking lie to me again.”
Silence. Ronan’s voice dropped.
“Were you wearing it?”
Elliot stared. The answer took too long.
“Yes.”
Everything disappeared. The house. The lights. The closed blinds. The police cruiser outside. For one impossible second, Ronan heard nothing. Then sound returned all at once. Heating pipes. Rainwater in the gutter. His own pulse. Elliot breathing. Ronan stared at him.
“You were there.”
“Yes.”
“When Mason died.”
“Yes.”
Ronan’s stomach rolled. He backed into the kitchen island.
The edge struck his hip. He barely felt it.
The prologue of the last several weeks rearranged itself inside his head.
Mason. The party. The mask. Elliot reading every article.
Detective Vance. The security image. The phone left at home. The fucking perfect alibi.
“Jesus Christ.”
Elliot stepped forward. Ronan immediately lifted one hand.
“Don’t.”
He stopped.
“Don’t fucking come near me.”
Pain crossed Elliot’s face. Ronan saw it. Hated that he saw it. Hated that part of him still wanted to respond to it.
“You were there,” Ronan repeated.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Elliot said nothing. Ronan laughed bitterly.
“Why were you wearing a mask in Saint Augustine’s Park at two in the morning?”
“I followed him.”
“Mason.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“He hurt people.”
Ronan stared.
“What?”
“Mason.”
“I know who the fuck you mean.”
Elliot swallowed.
“He recorded people. Humiliated them. Threatened them. You know that.”
Ronan’s skin went cold. The freshman. The videos. The conversations.
“You killed him because he was an asshole?”
Elliot didn’t answer. Ronan’s chest tightened.
“Did you kill Mason?”
Silence. No. Not silence again. Ronan stepped closer.
“Answer me.”
Elliot looked into his eyes.
“Yes.”
The word was almost gentle. Ronan hit him.
He didn’t decide to. His fist connected with Elliot’s jaw before thought arrived.
Elliot stumbled sideways and struck the edge of the island.
A glass fell. Shattered. Neither moved. Ronan stared at his own hand.
Then Elliot. A red mark had already appeared along Elliot’s cheek.
He touched it once. Looked at the blood on his lip.
Then back at Ronan. No anger. That was worse.
“Fuck.”
Ronan stepped backward.
“Fuck.”
Elliot straightened.
“I deserved that.”
“Shut up.”
“I did.”
“Shut the fuck up.”
Elliot closed his mouth. Ronan dragged both hands through his hair. His chest hurt. Not physically. Every breath felt too shallow.
“You murdered him.”
“Yes.”
“You stood there this entire fucking time while everybody—”
His voice broke. Ronan stopped. Started again.
“While Claire cried. His parents begged for information. Police searched. You watched all of it.”
Elliot looked down.
“Yes.”
“And then Lucas.”
Elliot’s eyes lifted. Ronan saw it. There. Different.
“Did you kill Lucas?”
Silence. Ronan’s stomach dropped harder.
“Elliot.”
“Yes.”
The answer was quieter. Ronan closed his eyes. Two. Two people. Not one terrible night. Not panic. Not accident. A pattern. He opened his eyes.
“How?”
Elliot’s face tightened.
“You don’t need—”
“How?”
“I killed him.”
“I know that. How?”
“Ronan.”
“Tell me.”
Elliot stared. Then looked away.
“I’m not giving you details.”
Ronan laughed incredulously.
“You think that’s where the line is now?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because you don’t need them in your head.”
Ronan stared. Somehow that sounded like protection. That made him furious.
“You don’t get to protect me from what you fucking did.”
“I know.”
“Stop saying you know.”
Elliot flinched. Good. Ronan hated himself for thinking that.
He turned away. Walked toward the living room.
Stopped. Turned back. His thoughts refused to stay in order.
Mason. Lucas. Dylan. The mask found at North Ridge.
Someone else watching. There was still someone else.
That fact existed beside Elliot’s confession like two incompatible realities.
“Dylan.”
Elliot’s expression changed. Ronan saw it immediately.
“No.”
“What?”
“I didn’t take him.”
Ronan stared.
“You expect me to believe you?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I didn’t.”
“That is not enough anymore.”
“I know.”
“STOP SAYING THAT.”
The shout hit the room hard enough to echo. Elliot went silent. Ronan breathed heavily. He looked at the floor. Glass glittered near the island. A tiny drop of Elliot’s blood marked one shard. Ronan stared at it. Then another thought arrived.
“How many?”
Elliot froze. Ronan looked up.
“How many people have you killed?”
Silence. The entire carriage house seemed to hold its breath. Ronan’s voice came quieter.
“Mason and Lucas.”
Elliot looked away. His stomach dropped.
“No.”
“Ronan.”
“No.”
He moved toward him. Elliot stepped backward.
“How many?”
“I don’t—”
“How many?”
“Stop.”
“How many fucking people?”
Elliot’s face had gone pale. Ronan stared. Then something horrible clicked. The older murders. The people Elliot had called bad. The pattern he had supposedly discovered. The victims who hurt people when nobody important was watching. Ronan whispered:
“Mason wasn’t the first.”
Elliot closed his eyes. Ronan felt sick.
“How many?”
Nothing.
“Tell me.”
Elliot opened his eyes. Ronan barely recognized the person looking back at him. Not because Elliot had changed. Because Ronan finally knew what he was looking at.
“Which ones do you know about?”
The sentence landed so softly Ronan almost didn’t understand it. Then he did. His face went numb.
“What?”