“Have you ever been in a darkroom?”

“I did complete the mandatory art credit in high school.”

Doyle asked, presumably from the counter, although the room was pitch dark so Larkin couldn’t say for sure where his partner was standing, “Did you pass?”

“That’s a little presumptuous of you.”

Doyle’s chuckle filled the room like smoke billowing from a fire. A moment later, the safelight was flipped on, and his tall, lithe form was a shadowy silhouette highlighted in a harsh, red glow. “You have to load the film into the tank in complete darkness.”

“I see,” Larkin said from where he’d been leaning against the far wall, safely out of the way where Doyle wouldn’t trip over him or where his charcoal suit—a favorite—wouldn’t be in danger of getting splattered by bleach mixtures. “I made a pinhole camera.”

Doyle glanced over his shoulder, smiling. He had his sleeves rolled back and was wearing the navy apron he’d grabbed from his office after they’d arrived at 1PP at 6:47 a.m. that morning. “Pinhole cameras are fun. I made one for Abigail.” The statement had come so naturally that it not only surprised Larkin, but apparently Doyle as well. He returned his attention to mixing his developer. “She didn’t really have the patience for it. All the photos came out blurry or black.”

“Mine too.”

Doyle moved with the film tank to the sink on his left and filled it with water. He returned it to the counter and set it aside before leaning back and crossing his arms. “I replaced them with some pictures I’d taken myself.”

“Isn’t that lying.”

“Don’t we already, when it comes to leaving quarters under pillows and letters from the North Pole?”

Larkin smiled and asked, very carefully, “Was she happy?”

Doyle nodded. He looked down, crossed one foot over the other, then cleared his throat and said, “We probably won’t be able to enlarge and transfer the negatives to photo paper until tomorrow. Once the film is developed, it takes a few hours to dry, but at least we’ll get a chance to see what’s on the reel this morning.”

“That’s acceptable.”

Doyle grabbed the tank and poured the water out. He checked the developing mixture with a thermometer, glanced at the public school-style clock on the wall, then poured the liquid into the tank. After securing the lid, he agitated the contents and kept doing so, thirty seconds for the first minute, then roughly ten seconds for each following minute, by Larkin’s count. When a full eight minutes had passed, Doyle poured out the contents and refilled the tank with the bleach-fix concoction. He once again checked the clock before repeating the agitation process.

“Ira.”

“Evie.”

Larkin suppressed a second smile. “How is this going to work.”

“The bleach? It dissolves the silver that’s generated by the developmental process.”