Justice was bitter when it came at the cost of someone’s mother, someone’s lover, someone’s best friend, and rain or shine, Larkin would visit their place of rest after he’d shelved the finished investigation and say their name, because you were only truly dead if there was no one left to mourn you.

And remembrance was the greatest act of love there was.

But there were times when a case was dropped on Larkin’s desk that still had someone else clinging to the dead. Those were the most difficult investigations—the ones where Larkin had to connect with another human. Because grief was complex and frightening and never went away. No one person handled loss the same way either, although Larkin had become adept at predicting reactions with a fair degree of accuracy, based on the relationship dynamics.

Except one.

Only one had thrown a metaphorical curveball right at his face.

On March 31, 8:36 p.m., Camila Garcia had said: Marco is always with me. My heart is always broken.

At 11:08 that same night, Doyle had said: I’m okay.

He wasn’t, though. He couldn’t be.

Because even though Doyle had insisted he could talk about Abigail, he never did. If Larkin caught Doyle studying one of Abigail’s photos, he’d smile that sunshiny smile and talk about something else. He was always busy, stimulated with some activity, like he didn’t want to be left to his own thoughts. Doyle never admitted to having a broken heart, but Larkin could now see, with a frightening sense of clarity, how just like Camila he was. And it was only because Doyle embodied the philosophical concept of “jubilant up to heaven” and “depression unto death” that Larkin had missed the initial mourning signs he knew so well.

Signs like lying.

Because Larkin, too, knew loss, he understood that propensity. The need to keep that grief tucked away, because it made people uncomfortable and they didn’t want to know. They’d asked Larkin to stop talking.

Please stop talking.

Stop talking.

Shut up.

Shut up, Everett.

When the verbal abuse became too much, when why can’t you get over it made a mockery of those memories, lying was the only way to keep new hurts from becoming permanent. Because if they asked, “Are you okay?” and he said, “Yes,” no one told him to shut up.

But what Doyle had said that morning—listen—it’d been profound and perhaps more insight into Doyle’s hurt than he’d intended to put on display. When Abigail had passed and Doyle’s sorrow became all-encompassing, had they told him to stop talking, or had they simply stopped listening?