Poverty.
Abuse.
God.
His grandmother’s intervention.
The acting out, couch-surfing.
Abigail.
Death.
Ira.
The realization hit with such a sickening rush that Larkin wanted to upchuck right in the middle of Phyllis Clark’s living room floor.
Doyle hadn’t been a “problem child.”
He hadn’t lived with his grandmother “just because.”
He hadn’t felt kinship with child runaways simply due to “crashing elsewhere” too.
And then when Doyle had lost Abigail, the North Star in his life, he’d managed to twist that loss, that fury, into believing he was no better a parent than his own mother.
Who betrayed your trust and broke your heart. Who made such a gentle man so angry inside.
Your mother, Larkin thought.She did this.
In the split second that followed, Larkin let his facial muscles relax.
He wouldn’t humiliate Doyle in front of a witness by letting his partner knownone of itwas a secret anymore, that Larkin had managed to switch his mental projector from full-screen to letterbox, and now all those sordid details that’d been cropped out of view were visible. Larkin would respect Doyle’s plea for space, because Doyle wouldneverforce him to speak about his associations. Not only did Larkin respect Doyle too much, as both a coworker and a friend, but they were dating, and one wrong step on unsure ground would send Larkin to the bottom of a ravine—nothing but a pile of broken bones and broken dreams.
So when Doyle glanced to his left and met Larkin’s gaze, Larkin simply looked as placid as possible.
The stiffness in his shoulders loosened and Doyle said to Phyllis, “You mentioned last night that you weren’t able to contact Esther’s family?”
“They weren’t close,” Phyllis answered. “I had no contact info—didn’t even know if her folks were alive or if she had siblings. She was kinda private about that stuff. I always assumed she’d had a shitty childhood and it was better to walk away from that life. But when no one reached out to me or her friends for eight years, I was the one to petition she be declared legally dead.”
Doyle nodded as he jotted down the details of their conversation, before looking at Larkin a second time. “Larkin?”
Larkin asked Phyllis, “Did you know a young woman by the name of Mia Ramos.”
Phyllis made a mouth-shrug. “No.”
“Are you sure.”
“Do I lookunsure?”
“Are you familiar with the Dirty Dollhouse.”
Phyllis was looking annoyed again, but said, “Yeah. It was a peep show a block or two away from the Kitten. Frills was even closer, if I remember right.”
“Did you ever meet an employee of the Dollhouse by the name of Earl Wagner.”
“I didn’t associate with the men of Times Square, Detective.”
“One last question, then,” Larkin began.
