Larkin sat and opened the case file on his thighs. He pulled out a pen from his inner coat pocket and clicked the top. No, Larkin didn’t need to take interview notes. He used the act of notation more as a visual tool—a method of putting the friends and family of victims at ease after being asked to dredge up their loss for a complete stranger to analyze. Larkin had learned during his years on the squad that for some, seeing a detective take diligent notes and find words to describe that particular, all-encompassing sorrow they’d carried for years, sometimes decades, had a way of validating their mourning and making them feel seen in a world that had shied away from their grief.
After all, humans were social creatures, hardwired for physical, emotional, and mental connection.
But every coin had two sides, and Larkin was no stranger to hostility, offense,did you people not listen to me when my mother, brother, child, best friend was murdered that you have to come back all these years later and ask the same questions, take morenotes?
So Larkin chose his method according to each individual’s attitude. That attitude being not only in their tone, pitch, or choice of words, but their nonverbal exchanges as well. Because unless a person had the necessary training to be aware of and control their physical micromovements, the body had a way of speaking when the mind was reluctant to.
Larkin held his hand out when Manuela made to leave the room. “Manuela,” he said, “would you please join us.”
Silvia narrowed her eyes, shooting daggers at Larkin once again.
Manuela faltered, looked down at Silvia, but then almost eagerly took the other side of the couch.
Larkin studied the sisters side by side, unblinking. “The missing persons report indicated that Mia Ramos had a troubled relationship with her stepfather.”
Silvia snorted.
“But that appears to not be the case,” Larkin continued.
Silvia tugged on the cannula’s long cord. It was attached to a portable oxygen tank sitting in the basket of a walker, shoved against the far side of the couch. She made no attempt to acknowledge or answer Larkin.
Manuela said quietly, “Silvia and Roberto weren’t married.”
Larkin let his gaze linger on Manuela a moment before he methodically scratched out the line on the report that mentioned stepfather. “What is Mia’s father’s name,” he asked next.
Manuela glanced at her sister, more cautiously this time, then minutely shook her head at Larkin.
Larkin tried, “Can you tell me the circumstances that led up to Mia becoming a missing person.”
“Spoiled brat ran away,” Silvia cut in.
Larkin felt Doyle shift at his side, intake air to speak. He turned his head just enough to make eye contact—reaper gray versus fool’s gold—and in that way that only partners totally in sync with each other could understand, conveyed to Doyle:Say nothing. Larkin returned his attention to Manuela. “Why did it take two weeks before Mia’s disappearance was reported.”
Manuela opened her mouth.
Silvia shot back, “She didn’t disappear. Are you stupid or something?”
“Silvia,” Manuela hissed. “He’s a cop.”
Unperturbed, Silvia raised her gnarled hand and pointed it at Larkin. “Mia was a lazy, no-good, troublemaking—”
“Silvia!” Manuela cried, louder.
“She only cared about herself,” Silvia continued.
Doyle blurted, his voice still its usual smoky purr, but tinged with a note of disbelief, “She was twelve years old.”
“So what?” Silvia said, directing her cold, watery stare in Doyle’s direction. “You don’t think a twelve-year-old can be the devil? I feed her, clothe her, and that bitch runs away.”
Larkin, right arm resting on the table, subtly raised his hand and silenced Doyle a second time without even turning to look at him. To Manuela, he said, “The missing persons report indicates that Mia had run away from home more than once already. Do you know where she’d go in these instances.”
But Silvia spoke over her sister again, barking in that croaky, oxygen-deprived voice, “Who the fuckcares?” She muttered something that sounded decidedly unpleasant in Spanish before saying in English, “Thirty years and that kid is still making my life hell.”
Larkin didn’t acknowledge the outburst, instead kept steady eye contact with Manuela. “Manuela—”
Doyle stood from the table, set his hand on Larkin’s forearm, and said, “Larkin, a word? Ladies, if you’ll excuse us for a moment.”
Larkin clicked his pen shut, tucked it back into his pocket, then stood. He took the case file with him as he followed Doyle back through the kitchen and into the stairwell of the building. “What,” he asked quietly as the door clicked shut behind him.
