“Close enough.” She opened a cupboard and removed a bottle of whiskey. She poured two fingers into a water glass printed with flowers, paused, then added a third. Jessica screwed the cap back on and took the seat across from Larkin. “I haven’t heard Andy’s name in a long time.” She took a sip and said, her voice a bit huskier with the burn of alcohol, “But I’ve never stopped thinking about him. For the first year or two, I figured he just… left, you know? People who aren’t city natives do that. Up and leave because they can’t hack it here anymore. You two from around here?”

Doyle stood from his crouch and leaned comfortably against the counter. PomPom was still dancing in circles around his feet. “Born and raised in Hell’s Kitchen.”

“One of those Irish families still clinging to life, huh?”

“By our fingernails,” he confirmed.

Jessica tried to smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “I was born a few blocks from here. My abuela raised me.”

“Mine too,” Doyle said.

She perked up a little and looked at him a second time. “Yeah? I always thought most grandmas share certain traits. Did she always have that one framed picture of Jesus?”

“As any good Irish Catholic granny would.”

Jessica tittered. “A bowl of hard candies?”

Doyle glanced at Larkin before he smiled. “Always.”

Jessica’s stiff posture relaxed. Just like that. It hadn’t been the sip of alcohol, although Doyle’s voice could have made anyone feel a little punch-drunk. “Andy was a sweet guy. My best friend. We met third year of college. Andy was… erm… you know.”

“Andrew was gay,” Larkin clarified.

Jessica dropped her gaze a bit and nodded. “So when he asked if I wanted to be his roommate, I said sure. I felt safe around Andy. God, I know, that sounds so terrible to suggest—that women can’t trust men unless they’re friends with Dorothy—but I think my abuela instilled a lot of her own fears in me.”

“Certainly not unfounded fears during the ’80s and ’90s,” Larkin said. “Reports of sexual assaults against women were four times higher than they are currently.”

Jessica shuddered a little. When she looked at Larkin again, her brown eyes were glassy with unshed tears. “He’s dead, isn’t he?”

“I’m very sorry,” Larkin answered, his modulated tone shifting a little to something warmer, gentler. “Andrew’s remains were found yesterday.”

She took a soggy breath and wiped her nose on the flannel shirt sleeve. “He’s been dead the whole time, hasn’t he? I mean, since I filed that stupid missing person report.”

“We believe so.”

“He was murdered?”

Larkin settled back in the seat. He left his hands flat on the tabletop. “Yes.”

Jessica wiped her face again.