Larkin quietly knocked.
The shuffle of flip-flops approached the door, the deadbolt was turned, and the door was opened as far as the chain lock would allow. Camila Garcia was a short, petite woman in her sixties, with salt-and-pepper hair and pronounced frown lines around her mouth. She wore a pair of black-framed glasses, a gold cross on a delicate chain around her neck, and a white top with an abstract floral pattern.
“Mrs. Garcia.” Larkin removed his badge and flashed his ID. “I’m Everett Larkin with the Cold Case—”
Camila shut the door and threw the deadbolt.
Larkin let out a breath as he pocketed his badge. He knocked a second time, but the home’s silence was his only response. “Mrs. Garcia,” he called, attempting to soften his modulated tone. “I won’t lie—I want to ask questions. I’m a detective. But I’m here to listen to you. And I’ll wait until you’re ready. As long as I have to.” With that, Larkin moved to the wall opposite the door, leaned back, slid down to the floor, and began counting.
He’d reached thirty-eight long minutes when his phone buzzed with an incoming call. Larkin shifted to one side, winced as a zing of discomfort shot from his tailbone and up his spine, and collected the phone from his pocket. The name on the screen caused his heart to miss a beat, and the sensation was like the first drop on a rollercoaster. Larkin’s grip on the phone case tightened until the plastic protested. He answered with a crisp “What.”
“Good morning,” Noah said.
Larkin glanced at the door to 5D. He could hear no movement on the other side. Keeping his voice low, Larkin said, “I’m at work.”
“Oh. So… everything went well at the doctor’s, then?”
“We’re not supposed to be speaking without a lawyer present.”
“I know.” But then Noah took a breath that sounded shaky and unsure.
“That was at your request, Noah.”
“I know, I know,” he repeated. “Sorry. I’m fine.”
“You don’t sound fine.” Larkin cradled the phone between his ear and shoulder, checked his watch, and asked, “Shouldn’t you be in class.”
“The kids are at the library. I have to pick them up in a few minutes. Listen, Everett….”
Larkin let the abrupt silence linger until he was certain that Noah was waiting for a cue. Reluctantly, he said, “I’m listening.”
“Can we talk? I mean, in person. Just us. No lawyers.” Noah took another breath, this one wetter.
And Larkin could imagine him, sitting in an empty classroom wallpapered in brightly colored construction paper, overlaid with 123s and ABCs, mentally preparing to pick up a group of twenty six- and-seven-year-olds who would all be asking Mr. Rider why his face was so red. Larkin closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose. “Fine.”
“Really?” Noah sounded hopeful—happy, even. “How about Skylight Lounge? Where we went for our anniversary. I can get a table for 6:30.”
The deadbolt of 5D was thrown. The chain lock slid free.
Larkin raised his head as the door opened.
Camila studied him from the threshold. She asked suddenly, curtly, “Are you going to sit on that dirty floor in your nice suit all day?”
Larkin hesitated a fraction of a second before he said into the phone, “Goodbye, Noah,” hung up, and climbed to his feet.
Camila’s gesture was irritated as she asked, “Well?Are you coming in?”
“Yes. Thank you, ma’am.” Larkin stepped through the doorway and into an immaculate front room that doubled as both living and dining room.
A plump tan couch was pushed up against the far wall with a knockoff Queen Anne oval coffee table set before it and a matching tan recliner to the right. White lace curtains in the open window to the left billowed in the morning breeze. Sunshine bounced off the glass of dozens of family photos displayed on the wall above the couch—Camila in a wedding dress alongside a big-shouldered, thick-necked man with a mustache who Larkin had to only assume was Mr. Garcia, but mostly, they were school photos of Marco. His lifetime on full display, from that gleeful kindergartener, the self-conscious elementary boy who’d lost all his front teeth at the same time, to the handsome teen on the verge of manhood in a snapshot from prom with a banner proclaiming the night’s theme to be Enchanted Forest.
Whatever that meant.
A television sat dark across from the couch, and the dining table near the front door was spotless—not even a placemat sat on its surface. A hall with an open doorway on the left, the scent of Fabuloso wafting out, marked it as probably being the kitchen. The closed doors beyond were likely bedrooms and the bathroom.
“Please sit,” Camila said with another wave, this time in the direction of the couch. “I’ll make coffee.”
“That’s not necessary.”
