Megan glanced at Doyle.
“I told you he was smart.”
Larkin fought down the urge to smile at the compliment. To Megan, he said, “I’d like to ask you some questions, if that’s okay.”
“About… the dude?” Megan asked.
“Gary Reynold, yes.”
“Can Ira stay?” Megan’s expression softened when she looked at Doyle a second time, grew both hopeful and timid as she so clearly stood at the crossroads of whether she wanted to view Doyle as a parental figure or as a man her young and clueless heart was smitten with.
“Detective Doyle will stay,” Larkin agreed.
Megan must have picked up on the hardening in Larkin’s tone, the clear usage of Doyle’s title, because her eyes narrowed and she promptly returned her gaze to the television. She studied Christina Applegate’s character, overwhelmed as the new executive administration assistant, and asked, “What’s a fax machine do, anyway?”
The counselor made a noise of distress at the question.
“Megan,” Larkin prompted, “what were you doing in Mr. Reynold’s apartment.”
She shrugged and, for a long minute, fiddled with the volume on the remote control.
Up three.
Down three.
Up two.
Down four.
“Makin’ some cash,” she eventually answered.
“How.”
Another one-shouldered shrug. “Taking pictures.”
Doyle moved to the foot of the bed, took a seat, and studied her. “Megan,” he said, his voice like a blanket, fresh and warm from the dryer. “We think that Mr. Reynold might have been involved in hurting some children in the ’90s.”
“Hurting them?” she echoed.
“Killing them,” Larkin clarified.
Megan shot him a startled, terrified expression, that thick-skinned attitude of someone who’d been left to care for themselves too long and at too young an age was briefly overwhelmed with the realization of having gotten away with flirting with death. “Is—is he gonna kill me too?”
“No,” Larkin said. “Detective Doyle arrested him.”
“That’s right,” Doyle cut in. “And there’s a very nice police officer right outside your door who won’t let anyone in. You’re completely safe.” He shifted, patting Megan’s hand a few times. “The thing is, these kids died over twenty years ago, and no one has ever been held accountable.”
“But—so you didn’t go there looking for me? You didn’t even know who I was, or that I was there?” Megan asked, her pitch as erratic as the television’s volume.
Doyle said evenly, “Detective Larkin figured out you were there.”
She asked defensively, “How?”
Larkin weighed how open, how gentle, he needed to be with her. The clues were abundant as to the sort of victim he was dealing with: Megan had been, or still was, a street kid, and logically, she was toughened to the realities of the adult world in a way she should still be ignorant of. She was still a child, though—barely a teenager—teetering on the age of profound insecurity and stupidity. But it’d been a long goddamn day so far, and Larkin already felt like he’d been hit by a bus. He decided he couldn’t lower his defenses any further than he already had. He couldn’t emote on the level she needed and still get through the rest of his workday without a second panic attack.
So Larkin laid it all out, cut-and-dry. “Mr. Reynold had been texting another person, identity unknown, asking for a redheaded teenager. When this individual abruptly ceased communication, Mr. Reynold texted that he’d handle the search himself. Myself and Detective Doyle went to PS 51, where he works, but when Mr. Reynold hadn’t returned after the lunch period, I surmised it was due to incriminating evidence he was trying to get rid of—more specifically, evidence in his home. His last text had been sent on Wednesday, May 13, which suggested to me that he went in search of a girl last week, had found one, and was potentially still holding her against her will.”
Megan made a sound, something between a snort and a laugh. “I’m really a blond,” she whispered.
