Contemporary society had a chilly and misguided view on death culture, this Larkin was hyperaware of. But regarding the death of children in particular—this was a discomfort they outright refused to be a part of. They’d hold their own to their bosom and cover their eyes, as if looking at mortal remains was a danger akin to meeting Medusa. When they’d all turned their backs, because a child’s wake was too much to see, a father’s cries too difficult to hear, there’d been no one left to listen.

The funeral pall had been draped.

The mourning veil lowered.

And Ira Doyle had become… a mystery.

Camila Garcia lived in the most northern neighborhood of Manhattan—Inwood—on tree-lined 204th Street between Sherman and Post Avenues. Larkin parked his black Audi on the corner at 8:10 a.m., climbed out, and tapped the lock on his key fob. He put his hands in his pockets and started east, walking past a bodega that doubled as the neighborhood hangout, if the plastic lawn chairs under the awning and grandfather-aged men populating them was anything to judge by. Larkin also passed a hair-and-nail salon, what he suspected was an employment office, although the sign was in Spanish and his parents had insisted he study French growing up, and then a Latina woman pushing a cart toward Sherman, laden with whole and sliced mangoes and shakers of lemon juice, salt, and chili powder.

Larkin’s stomach growled. He stopped, reached into his suit coat for his wallet to buy a bag of the sweet and spicy fruit, but found the forgotten protein bar he’d pocketed on his way out the door. Not nearly as satisfying, but it was certainly less messy, so he begrudgingly ate it in three bites before arriving at the front of an H-shaped apartment building. Larkin approached the front door as it banged open and a boy and girl—siblings—barreled outside.

“We’re gonna be late!” the brother shouted.

“My backpack’s unzipped!” the sister protested.

Larkin grabbed the door before it could fall shut and automatically lock. He looked over his shoulder, watched the older boy stop to zip the backpack his sister wore, then grab her hand again before they ran to the sidewalk and disappeared around the corner of the building. Larkin stepped inside. His derbies tip-tapped across the tile floor of the lobby, up the stairs, and down the fifth-floor hall before he came to a stop at 5D. Larkin had been here before, but Camila hadn’t opened the door for him. He had slipped his business card under the door and she had, weeks later, called.

Then he’d failed her.

Larkin quietly knocked.