“Wh-what?” Manuela stuttered.
“Detective Doyle and I will be in touch,” Larkin concluded simply. He motioned for Doyle to collect his portfolio bag.
“ButDetective! What about… don’t you need to know—”
“Shut up, Minnie,” Silvia spat before she was hit with a coughing spell.
Larkin ushered Doyle out the door first before saying over his shoulder, “Thank you for your time.” He stepped into the hall and closed the door.
“Uh, Larkin?”
“Trust me.”
“I do,” Doyle said, following him down the creaking stairs. “But for the nongeniuses among us, this would be a good place to offer an explanation.”
Larkin paused midway, looked over his shoulder, and said in a low tone, so as not to let his voice carry, “Manuela is obstructed, both literally and figuratively, from speaking in front of Silvia. But I just gave her a taste of what it feels like to be listened to. It’s the closest she’s gotten to an answer regarding Mia in decades. She won’t let us walk away.”
“And if she does?” Doyle asked as Larkin continued down the stairs.
“Then I have severely misinterpreted her grief.”
But no sooner had they reached the ground floor did the stairs groan from overhead and the slow patter of steps grow louder in descent.
Larkin stopped before reaching the front door, slid his hands into his pockets, and turned sideways so that he stood before Doyle but could watch the second-floor landing overhead.
Manuela rounded the corner, hurrying down the stairs. “Detective? Detective, wait!”
“Yes, ma’am,” Larkin called.
Manuela nearly tripped on the few final steps in her haste to reach them, but Doyle leaped forward, caught, and steadied her. “Oh goodness!”
“Are you okay?” Doyle asked.
“Yes.” She was a little breathless, gripping Doyle by the shoulder and forearm. She moved more cautiously down the stairs, thanked him, and let go with what Larkin swore was reluctance—not that he could blame her, because being anywhere in the vicinity of Doyle’s arms was somehow both a delight and a relief. “You said,” Manuela began, addressing Larkin, “you were a Cold Case detective. What’s that mean?”
It didn’t matter how many times Larkin had this conversation, because his HSAM never allowed for the blow, the bleed, the wound, to scab and harden against the devastation. It was a hurt like a broken bone, marrow stamped with the time, the day, the name of another voiceless victim. He would crack again and again, over and over, and Larkin would be asked: Where does it hurt? And he’d say: Everywhere, because his skeleton had been shattered, and yet, despite this, he knew the only way he’d leave his job was in a body bag.
Because remembrance was the greatest act of love there was, and remembrance was all that Everett Larkin was good for.
Taking a breath and softening his modulated tone, Larkin said, “When Homicide has exhausted all avenues of investigation and can’t solve a murder, they turn to me for help.”
Manuela’s eyes welled with tears. She brought a shaking hand to her lips.
“Mia’s missing persons case hasn’t been changed to a homicide,” Larkin amended. “But I’m investigating the death of an unknown teenager, and Mia has surfaced as a possible match.”
Doyle set a hand on Manuela’s back and she immediately leaned into him, desperate for his comfort. “Let’s sit outside,” he suggested, rubbing her back. “Get some fresh air.”
The three trudged outside. Manuela eased herself down to sit on the top step of the building’s stoop. She fished a tissue from her pocket, dabbed her eyes, and took several deep, pained breaths. Doyle pulled the strap of his portfolio bag over his head and wordlessly passed it to Larkin. Larkin accepted it in a moment of confusion, opened his mouth to ask, but then Doyle took a seat beside Manuela and offered his hand. She took it and held on with both her own, like Doyle was a life preserver on a sinking ship. And Larkin realized that Doyle had stepped in front of him, like a shield against all of life’s slings and arrows, because he knew how much Larkinhatedmaking himself vulnerable by offering a personal connection.
Larkin took the steps down, putting enough distance between himself and Manuela that she wasn’t overwhelmed by two hovering detectives and that they were eye level. He leaned Doyle’s bag against the banister at his feet.
“I know she’s dead,” Manuela said, her voice rough. And she tapped the side of her head in emphasis. “Up here. This’ll be thirty-six years. And maybe Mia would never speak to my sister—but not me. We joked we were like M&Ms—Minnie and Mia.” Manuela moved her hand to her chest. “But even though that makes sense… my heart… my heart has never wanted to believe it.”
Doyle said, “Hope is what makes living with such uncertainty possible.”
“I still have a landline,” she told him. “I didn’t want to get rid of it in case, one day, Mia called. Even if she couldn’t come home, I wanted her to at least be able to call.” Manuela sniffed into her tissue a few more times, wrapped both hands around Doyle’s again, and concluded, “She never has.”
Larkin stared at Manuela. “What can you tell me about the previous times Mia ran away.”
