Larkin took a few steps deeper into the room. Doyle had a few framed paintings on the walls of cityscapes, a combination of moody and pensive and boundlessly colorful and joyful. Larkin didn’t really know much about art, but he liked these a lot more than the generic landscapes Dr. Myers had on her walls. He stood in front of Doyle’s bookshelf. A few fiction titles, but mostly he owned nonfiction. Art books—references, anatomical guides, history—a 2x3 black-framed photo was propped against the book spines. A girl—well, a toddler—her white-blonde hair in two pigtails, was holding up her paint-covered hands to show the camera.

Larkin glanced at Doyle standing at the counter, dishing the food.

He moved away from the bookshelf as Doyle turned and walked across the room with the plates. He set them down on the coffee table, clearly intending to sit at the couch, then quickly grabbed a few stray books, an open sudoku puzzle, which Larkin smiled at, a wireless game controller, and a second framed photo of the same blonde child out of the way. Doyle carried the handful to the bedroom, opened the door, and set the contents on his bed. He took off his suit coat on the way out and shoved it onto one of the ladder rungs without concern for wrinkles.

“Oh,” he said suddenly, like something had only just occurred to him. Doyle stopped in front of the coffee table. “I don’t drink. I, uh—sorry. I have water, Coke, tea—”

Larkin took a seat at the couch as he said, “Water’s fine.”

Doyle flashed a smile, a rather self-conscious one at that, and returned to the kitchen. He opened the fridge, and the door pointed in Larkin’s direction, offering a view of yet another picture of the girl, a bit older, standing outside the steps of an apartment building and grinning from ear to ear. She wore a backpack on her shoulders and held a lunchbox with a unicorn on it.

Doyle shut the door and came back with a glass of ice water for Larkin and a can of Coke for himself. He took a seat and popped the top on his drink.

“Your niece is very cute.”

“Hmm?”

Larkin glanced at Doyle, and for a microsecond, there was only confusion on Doyle’s face. And then realization. Then heartbreak. Taken aback, Larkin opened his mouth to apologize, although he didn’t know what for, but Doyle spoke first.

“My daughter, actually. Abigail.”

Larkin blinked a few times. He didn’t need to do a double take of the apartment for proof of a child because he’d already catalogued and memorized everything lying out in the open. There were no toys, no books, no stuffed animals, certainly no separate bedroom for a child. There was absolutely zero evidence of a child in Doyle’s life.