“They last longer.”
“Exactly. I special order them, and my delivery hasn’t come in yet. You probably know why I do that, don’t you?”
Tactfully, Larkin said, “Price-to-flavor ratio of drugstore-brand candy isn’t in your favor.” But after a handful of seconds, like he truly couldn’t help himself: “You’re dedicated to a specific brand either not found in New York or not found in stores at all. So perhaps an old-fashioned recipe, which would typically be something ordered from a specialty vendor. Childhood candies aren’t necessarily good—they’re nostalgic. You buy a very particular lemon drop candy because there’s a positive association for you when eating it.”
“And maybe I also like lemon candy.”
“Also maybe, yes.” Larkin swallowed and redirected his attention to the screen. Quieter, he added, “I—I have some minor obsessive-compulsive tendencies. By saying it aloud, I can control the obsessive thoughts a bit more. At least, it makes my brain feel more organized.”
Larkin stared at his hands—long, slender fingers poised over the keyboard. His wedding band shone. A cascade, a tidal wave, an avalanche built in his mind, in his chest. Each memory of when Larkin used his desirable detective skills in an undesirable situation. Each time Noah got mad, got embarrassed, got defensive. Each time Larkin bit his tongue around his husband—shutting down, choking out one- or two-word answers to avoid a fight, and then he’d spend the rest of the night trying to calm the thoughts that never turned off and lick emotional wounds that’d be in his long-term memory forever.
“That was inappropriate of me,” Larkin said to the computer.
Doyle reached across the keyboard, pinched the hair tie between his thumb and index finger, gave it a tug, and let it snap against Larkin’s wrist.
“Ouch.” Larkin pulled his hand away.
Doyle was smiling again, but it was smaller, gentler, calmer. He sat close—smelling the same as yesterday: neroli and sandalwood and cardamon. “My grandmother always kept a dish of Clancy’s Candy Counter lemon drops in the house.” He let that confirmation hang between them for a minute, then made a slight gesture at the computer with a nod of his head.
The maelstrom that’d been building in Larkin began to subside. It wasn’t gone, not entirely, but the way Doyle had dropped Larkin’s anxiety to a manageable, almost ignorable level by simply letting him spew his nonsense without taking offense was a pleasant variation to how Larkin had been living his life as of late.
Neither spoke again. They studied the screen. Larkin scrolled through five more pages.
And then there he was—John Doe.
Larkin’s finger skittered to a halt on the touchpad the same instant Doyle said, “That’s him.”
“Andrew Gorman,” Larkin stated, trying out the name.
Even with his photograph being a small thumbnail in a sea of tragedy, his resemblance to the reconstruction sitting with them at the worktable was… uncanny. Andrew had been a young man running that final stretch into adulthood. His slightly rounded cheeks were what many would consider a baby face, which Doyle had accurately produced, although that could simply be due to his understanding tissue marker mathematics and how individual muscles played over human bone. For Larkin, the surprise was in Andrew’s clean-shaven face andTeen Beatheartthrob hairstyle.
“You were correct about his hair.”
“Good guess.”
Larkin looked at Doyle. “That wasn’t a guess.”
“There’s some psychology that goes into reconstructions or aging processes.”
“But you didn’t have a profile of the victim.”
“That’d have certainly made it easier,” Doyle said by way of answer. He nudged Larkin’s hand away from the touchpad and clicked the link.
Doyle had big hands with big knuckles, and the veins in his arms were pleasantly defined and close to the surface. That attraction came from a subconscious place, Larkin knew. The biological imperative to find the ideal partner—a strong and healthy physique being an incentive for most. Not that Larkin was in the market. But it was nice to window-shop now and then.
“Andrew Gorman, date of last contact was March 28, 1998.” Doyle let out a breath. “What day did McClennan say the crabapple went in the ground?”
“April 2, 1998.”
“You were right.”
“Not entirely. There’s a five-day discrepancy.”
Doyle leaned back in his seat, staring at Larkin. “And those five days are going to tell the story of Andrew going missing and how his remains came to be found over twenty years later. You don’t like compliments, do you?”
“No. And neither do you.”
“Oh, I’ve got an ego,” Doyle corrected. “You’ve just got a curious way of stroking it that I’m still adjusting to.”
