Larkin considered this. “If that was the case, what is the end goal of the individual behind the correspondence. To put me on the path of arresting Marco’s killer, or to harass me.”

“I have no idea,” Doyle answered. “Any logic behind the motive is lost to me, but it’d explain the inherent dichotomy seen in both cases and the available clues.”

“You’re very smart,” Larkin murmured, almost absently, as he turned the concept over in his mind.

“I know.”

Larkin looked at Doyle a second time. He was sporting that trademark smile. And maybe it was the Xanax kicking in, but he asked suddenly, “Why didn’t you tell me you used to curate exhibits on death culture.”

Doyle’s expression skittered and dropped like a skipping stone succumbing to gravity. “What?”

“I called the Gilded Age Home,” Larkin said.

Doyle stared for a long minute before scrubbing his face with both hands.

“Your inability to fold and put away clean laundry notwithstanding, you’re nothing short of perfect, Ira. But sometimes I also feel like you’re a complete mystery. I asked Neil Millett with CSU why he’d recommended you by name in March. He said he’d first met you when you worked at the museum.”

“Jesus,” Doyle muttered under his breath, shaking his head.

“I’m sorry,” Larkin said. “I didn’t mean to pry. Not—not entirely.”

“I didn’t mention it because it was a long time ago and the museum and I didn’t part ways on the best terms.”

“Because of Abigail.”

Doyle looked like he’d aged a decade in a matter of seconds. He said, “Because I’m a recovering alcoholic, Evie. I made some really bad decisions, and they cost me.”

Larkin blinked.

Doyle’s self-admission of having abused gin.

His religious zeal when it came to maintaining an exercise routine.

His insistence on remaining busy even in his downtime.

The ever-constant, alcohol-free home.

Doyle pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m six years sober. I should have told you sooner.”

“There isn’t a rulebook in place for these sorts of conversations,” Larkin said, as gently as he could manage. He reached, awkwardly took Doyle’s free hand, and gave it a quick squeeze while hoping his default of touch aversion wasn’t painfully obvious at that moment. Because Doyle needed comfort, and Doyle’s love language was touch.

Doyle returned the squeeze, and there was a certain amount of fear in his expression as he lowered his hand from his face. So much of Doyle’s life was being dredged up that he was clearly struggling with those long-buried truths now being laid out in the sun for even Larkin—especially Larkin—to see. “I hope this hasn’t changed the opinion you had of me.”

Larkin said, simply, “Never.”

“So the murder weapon wasn’t a belt either,” Doyle said, following Larkin up the stairs to the second floor of Precinct 19.