Doyle smiled as he wiped his fingers clean. “I think so too.”

“But I don’t want to talk about work or the case or anything like that.”

“What do you want to talk about?”

Larkin took a bite of his dinner, shrugging.

Doyle tried the food and made a sound of delight. “Wow, this is really good.”

“Thank you.”

“Why don’t you cook more?”

“I find it tedious.” Larkin stabbed a scallop, brought it to his mouth, then lowered it before elaborating, “Maintaining defenses all day is exhausting. Having to walk a tightrope of engagement without becoming absorbed, in case the event turns south, because I don’t want more negative associations. I have too many. So I suppose by the time I come home, and dinner needs to be cooked but I’m already so tired, and I look at the pile of ingredients and recipe directions… it becomes a sort of visual noise that’s like… chewing on aluminum foil.”

Doyle ate, listening to the explanation without interruption, then said at Larkin’s conclusion, “The meditative qualities of cooking has the opposite effect on you.”

“Yes. And in a twist of irony, I wanted to be a chef. I was accepted into culinary school upstate.”

“Really?”

Larkin nodded. “I started college a year late because I was in the hospital. I went into psychology instead. Added a criminology major shortly after.”

“Why?”

Larkin looked up, raising his eyebrows. “Why, what.”

“Why psychology?”

Larkin chewed on his words for a moment, then said, “I don’t think I can accurately describe the sensation of waking up and thinking differently than you did the day before. It’s like you’re a stranger to yourself. And no matter how hard I tried to be who I was before… he was gone. My memory and thought process is so hyperanalytical now, that it made sense to pursue an education that would help me understand all of the details I was memorizing.” He shrugged, feeling a little self-conscious under Doyle’s gaze. “That’s all.”

A loud silence settled between them.

Larkin asked, “What.”

“I want to ask a question, but I’m concerned it’ll prompt an association.”

“About Patrick.”

“Yes.”

Larkin shook his head, looked at his bowl, and said very quietly, “You can ask.”

“Did they catch the person who did it?”

“No.”

Doyle reached across the table, wrapped his hand briefly around Larkin’s left wrist, and gave it a squeeze. “I’m sorry.”

“Tell me something about yourself. That I don’t know yet.”

Doyle let go, leaned back in his chair. “I’m not that interesting.”

“You don’t believe that.”

Doyle smiled, his face—his entire body—lighting up. “I kept the very first voicemail you left me. I listen to it, sometimes. When I need to hear your voice. ‘This is Detective Everett Larkin, Cold Case Squad. The time is 9:07.’”

Larkin tilted his head and asked, so curiously, so sincerely, “Why?”