Doyle gave a small microshake of his head. “I wasn’t thinking that.”

Larkin wiped his nose on the paper wad, then threw it away. “Having HSAM as a detective is beneficial. Every interview, every location, every case file—I never forget any of it.” Larkin felt restless, his hands so awkward at his sides. He put them on his hips. “The problem is that I really have very little by way of short-term memory. Everything that your brain promptly forgets once it’s no longer a necessity—what you wore, what you ate, the weather, a phone number, a name—that all goes in the long-term for me. And it’s overwhelming. So I do what I can to manage sensory input, and I employ habitual routines so that I don’t misplace my keys or wallet or overlook some mundane errand or appointment.

“But sometimes my brain will pluck out a memory, unprompted by me wanting to consciously remember it. It’s an association. Sounds, typically, are what do it for me, but dates too. And some of those memories… aren’t good. They’re just as vivid as they were five or ten or fifteen years ago. And so are the emotions of that moment.” Larkin shook his head. “It sounds unbelievable, I know.”

“You were born with HSAM?”

“No.” Then Larkin said something only his parents, Dr. Myers, and Noah knew. “On August 2, 2002, I was struck in the head with a baseball bat.”

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER NINE

It was 10:27 a.m. when Doyle segued from the walk to Larkin’s Audi to stand in line at a coffee cart on the corner of Sixty-Seventh and Lexington. A woman with purple hair and stilettos was currently cleaning the guy out of his everything-bagel inventory. Larkin slowed to a stop, his eyes on the paperwork of the Gorman file that Doyle had graciously gone upstairs to collect while Larkin made himself presentable before rejoining society.

“What do you want?” Doyle asked, tugging his wallet free.

“Already ate. Detective Whitmer cut every perceived corner available when he took the initial report regarding Andrew’s disappearance.”

“You ate one donut four hours ago,” Doyle corrected. “Unless you snacked in your car beforehand.”

“I don’t eat in the car.”

“Okay, well, one jam-filled donut—”

“It was cake batter.”

“God. Even healthier. What do you want?”

“Listen to this,” Larkin answered, still studying the file. “Andrew was reported missing by his roommate on March 30, 1998—that’s three days before the tree went in the ground. The roommate, Jessica Lopez, said when Andrew didn’t come home the next day before work, she wasn’t too concerned. Said Andrew had gone to a friend’s the night before and sometimes went directly to work from there. But on the thirtieth, she and Andrew were supposed to go to the movies together. He never showed. She called the friend in question, who said Andrew hadn’t been there on the twenty-eighth.”