Larkin hung up. “Of course,” he mimicked under his breath. He immediately wrote up a request for a search warrant, highlighting in particular that he sought the names and last known phone numbers and addresses of Youth Empowerment Center mentors who’d been employed during the same time period as Marco Garcia. Larkin had a growing niggling of doubt that this avenue, once approved by a judge—because Larkin was rarely denied search warrants—would yield anything of interest. It would make sense that Archie worked as a mentor—he’d have had unlimited access to at-risk children—but by having such a position, it also put him at the forefront of suspicion, and Archie had survived a long time without detection. He’d have been on the periphery. Someone who was always there but never seen.

That notion made the April Fools’ letter all the more unsettling to Larkin.

Archie had been so prolific in his killings, but so careful as to avoid detection for a minimum of thirty-five years—a full ten years before Marco was ever tragically involved.

Why?

Why, after so long, had the subterfuge no longer satisfied him?

Why poke and prod at Larkin, specifically, when there were any number of decent detectives who could have taken a stab at this mystery?

Why endanger himself so boldly, so blatantly, knowing if he were caught, the only thing that would save him from certain death was the state’s abolishment of the death penalty?

The more child victims Larkin uncovered, the more the scope of Archie’s enterprise was revealed, the less he believed this was merely about a psychopath hungry for attention after over a quarter of a decade.

Something about this case wasn’t quite right.

Lieutenant Connor opened his door, and the squeak of hinges in need of lubrication snapped Larkin out of his concentration.

The cell sitting beside his computer mouse buzzed with an incoming text.

Larkin glanced at the screen.

Ira Doyle.

He opened the message. It was a gif of Lionel Richie, phone to his ear, with the caption: Is it me you’re looking for? Underneath read: Please consider checking on Noah today. I’ll be there within the hour. xx

That request immediately dredged up the night before—Noah shouting, Doyle trying to pacify, Larkin shutting himself in the bathroom, ZzzQuil burning, coughing, gagging, sobbing—

“Grim.”

Larkin startled. His hold on the cell phone was sweaty. He set it down and looked toward Connor’s open door. “Yes, sir.”

Connor inclined his head inside before disappearing back into the office.

Larkin stood, smoothed his tie, and walked across the bullpen and into the room. He closed the door and took a seat in front of Connor’s imposing desk. “I was at 1PP this morning,” he explained without any prompting. “We found a disposable camera in the home of a suspect, so I opted to have Detective Doyle do the developing himself, rather than wait for the labs—”