Confused, Doyle asked, “Then how did you know Jay was killed?”

But Larkin looked at his phone again, hastily scrolled through the files and scanned evidence, then pulled up a photograph—the one he’d found wedged in between the pages of Hamlet. He turned his phone toward Hernandez and spoke over the two. “Is this Jay Gibson.”

Hernandez glanced from Doyle to the phone, and then paled.

Doyle automatically reached for him. “Do you need to sit down?”

“No, I’m—where did you get that?”

“Is this Jay Gibson,” Larkin asked a second time.

“Yes, yes, yes. But where did you find that picture?”

“Among Marco’s personal effects.” Larkin lowered his cell. “You gave Marco that photograph, didn’t you. At first, Jay disappeared. And then you found yourself in possession of that picture. When you realized he wasn’t asleep, you went to Marco for help. You trusted him. Marco told you he’d take care of it, didn’t he.”

Hernandez doubled over, his hands on his knees. “Fucking hell….”

Doyle patted his shoulder a few times, instructing Hernandez to take deep breaths—in through the nose, out through the mouth.

Larkin squatted down in order to meet Hernandez’s torn expression. “How did you get the photograph.”

“I found it,” he whispered. “Jay’d been gone a few days. His mother didn’t have a phone—too expensive—so I couldn’t call him. Waited outside his school, outside his building, but he was nowhere. Checked with some of the boys at—” He faltered, backtracked, reworked what he’d been about to admit, “Some other street kids, but they hadn’t seen him.” Hernandez slowly straightened his posture, although he was still looking decidedly gray. “At the YEC, I didn’t want to take any classes that night, so I snuck into the janitor’s closet to smoke a joint. There was a windbreaker hanging on the back of the door, so I checked the pockets for cash. Found some developed pictures—remember the paper envelopes they used to come in? They were all of Jay. I freaked. I mean, I lost it. I remember puking into the mop bucket. I took one of the pictures and I found Marco and I told him. I told him everything I knew, and he promised he’d do something about it.” More tears welled in Hernandez’s eyes. “I killed Marco, didn’t I?”

Larkin narrowed his eyes. “No. You did not.”

“I didn’t trust the police. But if I’d told them instead… Marco was just a fucking kid. What was I thinking?”

“You were not responsible for Marco Garcia’s death,” Larkin reiterated. “Alfred Niederman was.”

That’s when Hernandez’s expression did something… strange. His brows rose and his eyes grew, like in surprise, but then the rounded, geometric shapes in his face elongated, drew out. Surprise transitioned to its close and often mistaken for cousin: fear.