Larkin entered the apartment, and the first description he had was: cozy. It was small, although clearly not an issue for someone who lived alone and who worked a lot. The left wall was exposed brick, with a small entertainment stand pushed up against it. Across from that was a couch, coffee table, and bookshelf—nothing particular about the brands or styles of furniture other than comfortable, Larkin thought. The kitchen was toward the end of the one room, fridge, counter, and sink all along the brick wall and a table for two in front of the big windows overlooking the street, although the curtains were drawn. Larkin turned around, and behind him and to the right were a pair of french doors that closed off a very small bedroom, visible through the glass, from the rest of the house. A final door not far from the bookshelf was probably the bathroom. It took an extra second for Larkin to acknowledge the almost fantastical sepia glow wasn’t coming from the overhead light, but from all the fairy lights strung throughout the apartment.
“Sorry about the lights,” Doyle was saying as if reading Larkin’s mind. He put the bag on the kitchen counter, propped his portfolio case against the table, then said, “I can turn them off.”
“No. It’s okay.”
“You sure?”
Larkin nodded. He took off his suit coat and glanced around for a place to set it. Beside the french doors was a wooden ladder—clearly it came with the apartment and provided access to the storage closet overhead of the bedroom entrance, but Doyle appeared to be using it as a coatrack instead. Larkin added to the pile.
Doyle was opening cupboards and taking out plates in the kitchen.
Larkin took a few steps deeper into the room. Doyle had a few framed paintings on the walls of cityscapes, a combination of moody and pensive and boundlessly colorful and joyful. Larkin didn’t really know much about art, but he liked these a lot more than the generic landscapes Dr. Myers had on her walls. He stood in front of Doyle’s bookshelf. A few fiction titles, but mostly he owned nonfiction. Art books—references, anatomical guides, history—a 2x3 black-framed photo was propped against the book spines. A girl—well, a toddler—her white-blonde hair in two pigtails, was holding up her paint-covered hands to show the camera.
Larkin glanced at Doyle standing at the counter, dishing the food.
He moved away from the bookshelf as Doyle turned and walked across the room with the plates. He set them down on the coffee table, clearly intending to sit at the couch, then quickly grabbed a few stray books, an open sudoku puzzle, which Larkin smiled at, a wireless game controller, and a second framed photo of the same blonde child out of the way. Doyle carried the handful to the bedroom, opened the door, and set the contents on his bed. He took off his suit coat on the way out and shoved it onto one of the ladder rungs without concern for wrinkles.
“Oh,” he said suddenly, like something had only just occurred to him. Doyle stopped in front of the coffee table. “I don’t drink. I, uh—sorry. I have water, Coke, tea—”
Larkin took a seat at the couch as he said, “Water’s fine.”
Doyle flashed a smile, a rather self-conscious one at that, and returned to the kitchen. He opened the fridge, and the door pointed in Larkin’s direction, offering a view of yet another picture of the girl, a bit older, standing outside the steps of an apartment building and grinning from ear to ear. She wore a backpack on her shoulders and held a lunchbox with a unicorn on it.
Doyle shut the door and came back with a glass of ice water for Larkin and a can of Coke for himself. He took a seat and popped the top on his drink.
“Your niece is very cute.”
“Hmm?”
Larkin glanced at Doyle, and for a microsecond, there was only confusion on Doyle’s face. And then realization. Then heartbreak. Taken aback, Larkin opened his mouth to apologize, although he didn’t know what for, but Doyle spoke first.
“My daughter, actually. Abigail.”
Larkin blinked a few times. He didn’t need to do a double take of the apartment for proof of a child because he’d already catalogued and memorized everything lying out in the open. There were no toys, no books, no stuffed animals, certainly no separate bedroom for a child. There was absolutely zero evidence of a child in Doyle’s life.
Doyle offered a very quiet, reflexive laugh at whatever he read on Larkin’s face before picking up one of the forks and absently pushing around the lo mein noodles. “No, she doesn’t live here. Abigail… passed away.” He set the fork back down and put his hands on his knees, staring at an invisible spot on the bare bricks—at some long-ago memory. “About seven years ago.” Doyle turned to Larkin and suddenly sounded panicked as he asked, “What is it?”
Larkin jerked his head and wiped his face with the heel of his hand. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered. “I didn’t—for you—to relive that.” He got to his feet.
Doyle grabbed Larkin’s wrist. “Hey. Come on.” His thumb brushed the underbelly of Larkin’s wrist in a profoundly intimate way before he gave a tug. “Please sit.”
Larkin did.
Doyle let go and said, “I can talk about her. But I guess you’d have remembered it differently?”
“As if it’d just happened,” Larkin explained, staring at his gold wingtips.
“I don’t envy you,” Doyle said quietly.
Larkin hastily wiped his face a second time before shaking his head. “Christ. I’m sorry. At work, all that… tragedy is laid out in black-and-white. They know, I know, we can broach the subject together. It’s when I’m caught off guard, sometimes I forget not everyone… reacts the way I would.” He finally looked at Doyle.
“A knee-jerk reaction to protect me?”
“I guess.”
Doyle reached a hand out, caught himself, and returned it to his own knee. “It’s okay.I’mokay.”
Larkin rewound his conversation with Camila Garcia, pushed Play.My heart is always broken.Somehow, he doubted Doyle was at all okay.
