Larkin turned to an office that mirrored the good doctor’s on the right side of the hallway. The door was open and a middle-aged woman with thick glasses and closely cropped brown hair was staring at him from where she sat at a desk. The workspace was cluttered with files and a government-assigned laptop, but there were no tchotchkes or family photographs that’d indicate the office was specifically hers. Larkin glanced over her shoulder, taking an automatic inventory of the space. Two other desks had been shoved into the cramped quarters, both currently unoccupied but with the same buildup of impersonal items. A squat bookcase on the far wall of the windowless room had several packages stacked on the shelves, as well as binders, loose sheafs of paper, and a tabletop microscope, like the sort Larkin used in biology class in high school when they had dissected a goat’s eye and his partner, Susan Anderson, had projectile vomited and was sent home for the day. Larkin sniffed. The circulated air smelled a bit stale, a bit like someone’s hours-old lunch of instant ramen noodles, and a bit like harsh cleaning chemicals.

Larkin decided the office was likely used by the rotating staff of mortuary technicians and that this woman, with the steam whistle voice, was the same he’d spoken to on the phone that morning. He removed his badge and showed her, saying, “Everett Larkin. I called about—”

“The skull casting,” she said in a clipped tone.

“That’s right. Dr. Baxter emailed to say I could come pick it up before five o’clock.” He briefly considered, now that his comfortable Xanax high was a few hours old and on the decline, that Dr. Baxter might have been screening him. Larkin would have to apologize again for the improper comment he’d made that morning. Explain that he’d been given some poor life advice from Ira Doyle and that he’d never in the future attempt to imitate someone whose flirting skills were on a bar Larkin couldn’t even jump to reach.

You owe Doyle an apology too.

The thought had been lurking just under the surface the entire drive to OCME.

Because Lieutenant Connor had felt it necessary to pull favors and get Doyle officially involved, and working together with a storm cloud overhead wouldn’t help anyone. Because Doyle had seen something was very wrong with Larkin but kept a cool and professional attitude that allowed Larkin privacy, without tipping Mable off. Because it hadn’t been Doyle’s fault that March 30 mirrored August 2, 2002, in all the ways that required Xanax in order to cope.

People don’t want to know.

But Doyle did. Well, he’d asked, at least. He’d regret ever showing an ounce of concern if Larkin told him—really told him—but for that singular second, Doyle had asked and he’d been… seemingly sincere about it.