Larkin thought of the wastebasket full of discarded pages from Doyle’s sketch pad, frustration seeping out from the crumpled contours of expensive paper.

“But I sat with her for nearly five hours,” Doyle continued, “and couldn’t get her to settle on any one sketch.”

Larkin cocked his head slightly and asked, his voice inflecting, “What’d you do?”

Doyle smiled, responding to Larkin’s noted interest with “I added a mole.”

“What.”

“I excused myself to the bathroom and texted Weaver that I intended to add an unremarkable detail to the sketch,” Doyle explained. “It was a predetermined fabrication to see if she’d agree to its accuracy.”

Larkin felt something in his shoulders begin to loosen. “And if she did, you’d know you were dealing with a false witness.” When Doyle nodded, Larkin added, “You are a very competent detective.”

“Thank you.”

“It was an inside job.”

Doyle laughed again and said teasingly, “All right, Mr. Holmes.”

Larkin shrugged.

“What about you? Was Connor available to speak with?”

“Yes. He wants me on the case because—” And then Larkin realized what Doyle had done. Again and again, he had this way of engaging Larkin in simple discussion that would draw him away from the distress that was causing an internal spiral. Doyle could lower Larkin’s heart rate and soothe the itch that made him grab for Xanax with something as simple as a conversation about a goddamn mole. In fact, he lowered Larkin’s defenses so easily this time that Larkin nearly let slip the relation between the anonymous letter and the subway incidents.

But he caught himself with a literal bite of his tongue.

Because Doyle didn’t know about the April Fools’ letter.

Doyle raised a thick eyebrow and prompted, “Because?”

“Just—my name was on the photograph,” Larkin concluded.

“Oh.”

Larkin looked away, picking at the cold waffle fries. “I suspect this investigation might be related to another cold case of mine.”

“Really?”

“Marco Garcia was pushed in front of a Q train at Fifty-Seventh Street on this date, twenty-three years ago. He was eighteen years old.”

Doyle said, “That’s a hell of a coincidence.”

“One worth looking into,” Larkin answered. “I have to try his mother tomorrow.”

“You don’t sound happy about that.”

“I don’t sound any way,” Larkin corrected. “I speak in a monotone.”

“You’re not as monotone as you’d like to think.”

Larkin looked up, studied Doyle intently, then said, “Please expound.”