Larkin stepped out of the office. The day had been hell. But underneath the addictive calm of pharmaceuticals, he rewound and replayed Doyle’s passing comment about the day and the night—the light and the dark. He replayed Doyle’s reassuring laugh. Its easiness and authentic notes. Its pleasure. Jubilate up to the heavens. Nietzsche—aphorism number twelve—the concept that pleasure and displeasure were so entwined that to have the extreme of one meant the same amount of the other. But if Doyle were the jubilance, did that make Larkin the depression unto death in this partnership they were about to embark upon?

Had Doyle read Nietzsche and simply dumbed down the profoundness of that philosophical concept in order to reinforce the lackadaisical front he projected?

Larkin wondered: was Doyle’s laugh due to nothing more than the theory of relief? That it was merely a physiological mechanism in which to handle anger or pain or sadness or to cope with the existential crisis that is human mortality? Or did Doyle laugh because he was truly happy? Because if he chose to accept as much displeasure as possible, then by default he had already paid the price for which to experience boundless joy.

Larkin turned and asked Bailey, “Why was Doyle assigned his current session.”

Bailey glanced up and said, as if Larkin should have known this all along, “He always takes the cases involving children. Those are the worst ones, you know? But he always takes them.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER SEVEN

The office followed all the rules of basic psychology. Soothing wall color in a sage green. No harsh fluorescents, only warm tungsten floor lamps to keep the room luminated as the March skyline edged toward a sunset of golds and pinks. The desk and coffee table were a natural wood with a visible grain. Comfortable furniture at the midrange of price. Two pleasant, if somewhat bland, spring landscapes adorned the walls.

Larkin knew all the tricks.

Dr. Elizabeth Myers dressed like an appropriate accent to the room. Glasses that suggested intelligence, but with a large enough frame that her expression did not imply superiority. Steel-gray hair wrapped in some complicated affair. Pleated pants in a teal that complemented the walls, a billowy top that looked like something purchased in Williamsburg, and a chunky piece of jewelry around her neck that was styled to look rustic or smart, but not expensive, even though it most certainly was extremely pricey.

Her intern was a lanky fellow with a shock of red hair and a body that still hadn’t been entirely grown into, in the way that twentysomething men were susceptible. But he was pleasant enough, which was all Larkin really cared about by 6:07 that evening. “Richard Walsh. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Larkin.”

Larkin stood to shake the student’s hand. “Dr. Myers says you’re working on your dissertation.”

“Yes, sir.”

“What is your area of interest.”

“Cognitive neuroscience of human memory.”