Chapter Thirty-Six — The Favorite
THE FAVORITE
St. Augustine Behavioral Health looked smaller in daylight.
Ronan decided that made it worse. At night, abandoned buildings were allowed to be frightening.
Darkness did half the work. Shadows filled broken windows.
Trees became shapes. Every sound could be blamed on the fact that human beings had spent thousands of years learning not to wander into dark places alone.
At eleven twenty-six on a Thursday morning, there was nowhere for fear to hide.
The building simply stood there. Four stories of stained brick and boarded windows at the northern edge of Saint Augustine’s Park.
Half the eastern wing had been demolished years ago, leaving a jagged seam of exposed concrete where hallways once continued into nothing.
Dead vines crawled across the western wall.
Rust streaked beneath old window frames.
A faded sign remained above the main entrance.
ST. AUGUSTINE BEHAVIORAL HEALTH Someone had spray-painted over HEALTH. Ronan stared through the windshield of Vance’s SUV.
“Subtle.” Vance glanced over. “What?” “Saint Augustine.” “Yes.” “Saint.” “Yes.” “Adrian really committed to the branding.” “If Adrian is Saint.” Ronan looked at her.
“You still need the qualifier?” “I’m a detective.
” “You’re annoying.” “I’m a detective.” Fair.
Three black tactical vehicles occupied the cracked parking lot ahead of them.
Federal officers had joined Bellweather Police
after Saint’s access to the detention annex became obvious.
Ronan had stopped trying to understand which agency controlled what approximately forty minutes ago.
All he knew was Elliot remained at the annex.
Ronan was here. He hated both facts. His temporary phone rested in an evidence pouch in Vance’s console.
Saint had not messaged again. That bothered him more than the messages.
“Anything from Elliot?” Vance looked at him. “You saw him an hour ago.” “That wasn’t my question.” “No.” “Did they tell him we arrived?” “No.” “Why?” “Because we’re not providing live operational updates to a homicide suspect in federal detention.”
Ronan stared. “When you say it like that, he sounds terrible.” Vance gave him a look. Ronan looked back toward the building. Elliot had told him not to be late. He wouldn’t be. Tomorrow. Another visit. No matter what happened here. Vance opened her door.
“Stay with me.” Ronan followed. Cold air hit immediately.
The park was almost empty beyond the police perimeter.
A few people stood behind barricades farther down the road, phones raised because apparently watching heavily armed officers enter an abandoned psychiatric hospital qualified as Thursday entertainment.
Ronan shoved his hands into his hoodie pockets. One of the federal officers approached.
“Building exterior is clear.” “Entry?” “Team one is inside.” “Any movement?” “No.” Vance nodded. Ronan looked toward the entrance. “Then why am I here?” The officer looked at him. Vance answered. “Because the photograph of the mask included something addressed to you.”
Ronan stopped. “What?”
She continued walking. He followed. “You left that part out.” “Yes.” “Why?” “Because you were already determined to come.” “What was addressed to me?” “We don’t know.
” “That makes no sense.” “The photograph showed an envelope beneath the container.” Ronan stared.
“With my name?” “Yes.” “And you didn't tell me.” “No.” “Vance.” “You still came.” “That’s not the point.” “It is from my perspective.” Ronan swore.
They reached the front steps. The main doors had been forced open by tactical officers.
Glass crunched beneath their shoes. Ronan stopped at the threshold.
Something about entering felt wrong. Not supernatural.
Personal. This place belonged to Saint. Maybe not legally.
Maybe not physically. But everything had been leading here.
Tyler. The park. Nathan. Caleb. Samuel Cross.
Adrian. Seven projects. The mask. Elliot.
Ronan stepped inside. The smell came first. Dust. Mold.
Old water. Something chemical beneath it.
The lobby had once been expensive. Marble reception counter.
Wide staircase. Tall windows. Now ceiling tiles sagged overhead and graffiti covered the walls.
A tactical officer moved past. Ronan followed Vance toward the west corridor.
“Where was the photo taken?” “Basement.” “Of course.” “What?” “Nothing good is ever on the first floor.” Vance almost smiled.
“Stay behind me.” “I know.” They reached a stairwell.
Battery-powered lights had been placed along the steps by the entry team.
Down. Ronan hated basements. He had not known that about himself before this week.
New personality trait. Wonderful. The lower level smelled worse.
Concrete corridor. Old pipes overhead. Doors lining both sides. Most open. One tactical officer waited at the far end.
“Detective.” Vance approached. “What?” “We found the room.” Ronan’s pulse increased.
“Clear?” “Yes.” “Evidence?” The officer looked at Ronan.
Then Vance. “A lot.” That word bothered him.
They moved. Room B-17. The number remained on a metal plaque beside the door.
Vance entered first. Ronan followed. Then stopped.
“Jesus Christ.” The room was enormous. Not a patient room.
Archive storage maybe. Metal shelves had been removed, leaving holes in the concrete floor.
Someone had replaced them with tables. Seven tables.
Perfectly aligned. One for each project.
Ronan knew immediately. Photographs covered the wall behind them.
Dozens. Maybe hundreds. People. Homes. Cars.
Screenshots. Printed messages. Maps. Newspaper clippings. Every table had a number.
ONE. TWO. THREE. FOUR. FIVE. SIX. SEVEN.
Ronan’s stomach turned. “This is his fucking museum.” Vance said nothing.
She had gone still. Evidence technicians photographed everything before touching it.
Ronan moved closer. Table One. A man he did not recognize.
Midtwenties in the earliest photographs.
Later older. Caleb? No. The dates were wrong.
Nine years ago. Table Two. Woman. Dark hair.
Multiple photographs. Table Three. Caleb Ward.
Ronan recognized him immediately from the file.
Table Four. Another man. Table Five. Nathan.
Table Six. A woman. Table Seven. Elliot.
Ronan stopped breathing. His table was different.
Larger. More photographs. More documents.
More everything. Elliot walking across Bellweather campus. Elliot
leaving class. Elliot at home. Elliot with Claire. Elliot at the gym. Elliot in restaurants. Elliot asleep. Ronan’s stomach dropped. Photograph after photograph. Years. Not months.
“How long?” Vance came beside him. “What?” Ronan pointed toward the earliest date. Three years ago. Elliot would have been eighteen. Before the forum. Before Saint supposedly met him.
“Saint knew Elliot before Elliot knew Saint.” Vance stared. “Looks like.” Cold moved through Ronan. Elliot had thought Saint found him online. No. Saint had selected him first. Then created the meeting. Ronan looked across the photographs.
“Why him?” No answer. Then he saw himself. Photograph near the edge. Ronan at twenty. Leaving the Vale house. Another. Ronan with friends. Another. Ronan loading something into his car. He stepped closer. Dates. Before Elliot and Ronan. Before their parents married. Before they were stepbrothers.
“What the fuck?” Vance saw. Her expression changed.
“Ronan.” “Saint knew me too.” More photographs.
Not as many. Enough. Then one of Elliot and Ronan together.
First summer after the marriage. Backyard.
Neither looking toward the camera. Another.
Christmas. Through a window. Another. Ronan touching Elliot’s shoulder.
Another. Elliot staring at Ronan when Ronan wasn’t looking.
Ronan felt sick. Saint had not merely observed their relationship after it started. Saint had watched it form.
“Three years.” Ronan whispered it. Vance looked toward the table. “Maybe longer.” “No.” He pointed toward a photograph. Elliot. High-school graduation. Eighteen. Saint had been there. Watching. Choosing. Ronan’s jaw tightened.
“He was never random.” “No.” “Saint didn’t find Elliot on a forum.”
“No.” “He led him there.” “Possibly.” Ronan stared.
“Why?” Vance looked toward the remaining tables.
“That’s what we need to determine.” Ronan moved to Table One.
The label beneath the photographs read: PROJECT ONE — DANIEL HART Dates spanning almost nine years.
Last photograph five years ago. Newspaper clipping.
LOCAL MAN FOUND DEAD IN RESERVOIR Ronan froze. “Vance.” She came over. Read. Her expression hardened. “Cause?” “Drowning.” “Ruled?” “Accidental.” Ronan looked at the table. Red writing across Daniel’s final photograph. One word.
FAILED. His stomach dropped. Table Two. PROJECT TWO — MARA VOSS Last photograph. Newspaper clipping. WOMAN, 27, FOUND DEAD AFTER APPARENT OVERDOSE Red.
FAILED. Table Three. Caleb. No death clipping. Instead: WITHDREW. Table Four. PROJECT FOUR — ISAAC ROWE Ronan scanned. Last photograph. Missing-person article. No body. Red writing.
FAILED. Table Five. Nathan. UNSTABLE. Ronan almost laughed. Understatement. Table Six. PROJECT SIX — LENA MORROW Last photographs from two years ago. No death article. No red judgment. Only:
DORMANT. Ronan looked toward Vance. “Three alive.” “Caleb. Nathan. Lena.”
“Then Elliot makes four.” Vance froze. Exactly. Nathan had said three alive. If Elliot counted, one of those three was dead. Or Nathan didn’t count Elliot because he was current. Ronan’s pulse sharpened.