“It sounds like a hell of a stretch,” Bosman said. The wood groaned as he shifted his weight in the doorway.

“We have evidence that suggests Andrew knew his killer,” Doyle said. “I think the truth lies a lot closer to home than suspected.”

“I don’t buy it.”

Larkin reached his hands out from the couch, pushed himself clear, then took Doyle’s outstretched hand and was yanked to his feet like he weighed nothing. Larkin brushed the front of his suit coat while saying, “Whether Andrew was intentionally selected or his death was collateral, Doyle is correct—this case has a great deal more happening under the surface, and this building, Andrew’s relationship with Jessica, with Ricky, are all vital clues.”

“Per the FBI,” Bosman said, like a man who’d once skimmed an article and was since desperate to show off that knowledge, “these days, most serial killers don’t have a relationship with their victims.”

“That’s correct,” Larkin answered. Then he held up a few Polaroids that were bent and weathered, directing his attention to Doyle. “But Andrew Gorman’s death mask says otherwise.”

Doyle looked away from Larkin’s face and down at the photos—three separate masks, all rudimentary, one of plaster and two of what seemed to be papier-mâché. Each laid over the face of a woman prone on her back, heavy bruising on their necks, and each nude from the waist up.

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER TWELVE

“I need to know how old those Polaroids are.”

“Hang on.”

“Doyle.”

“I said, hang on,” Doyle said, glancing up from his phone. “Unless you want to read a fifty-page manufacturer’s manual yourself, give me a minute.”

When it’d come time to take Ricky in for questioning, there’d been a territorial dispute with Bosman. Ricky was now a person of interest in Larkin’s case, but he’d shot Jessica in an unrelated—according to Bosman—incident on his turf. The argument had spiraled out of control when Bosman declared having heard about the fucker everyone called Grim, what an egotistical prick he was, and that as far as he was concerned, Larkin could take a walk into rush hour traffic.

Larkin hadn’t been particularly insulted. He did have a headache throbbing behind his left eye, however, a combination of stress from the shooting and finding Jessica slowly bleeding to death, irritation with this newbie detective so ready to prove himself that he was about to whip his dick out and literally mark territory, and the overwhelming stimulation from Ricky’s apartment. Every time Larkin blinked, he saw a negative of the studio space. And the dank, spoiled smell had permeated his clothing, every movement stirring that combination of rotting food and pot and morbid curiosity from Larkin’s suit.

“One in every five employees in a committed relationship cheat on their partner with a colleague,” Larkin had told Bosman after he’d finished pitching a fit.

“What?”