The shuffle of flip-flops approached the door, the deadbolt was turned, and the door was opened as far as the chain lock would allow. Camila Garcia was a short, petite woman in her sixties, with salt-and-pepper hair and pronounced frown lines around her mouth. She wore a pair of black-framed glasses, a gold cross on a delicate chain around her neck, and a white top with an abstract floral pattern.

“Mrs. Garcia.” Larkin removed his badge and flashed his ID. “I’m Everett Larkin with the Cold Case—”

Camila shut the door and threw the deadbolt.

Larkin let out a breath as he pocketed his badge. He knocked a second time, but the home’s silence was his only response. “Mrs. Garcia,” he called, attempting to soften his modulated tone. “I won’t lie—I want to ask questions. I’m a detective. But I’m here to listen to you. And I’ll wait until you’re ready. As long as I have to.” With that, Larkin moved to the wall opposite the door, leaned back, slid down to the floor, and began counting.

He’d reached thirty-eight long minutes when his phone buzzed with an incoming call. Larkin shifted to one side, winced as a zing of discomfort shot from his tailbone and up his spine, and collected the phone from his pocket. The name on the screen caused his heart to miss a beat, and the sensation was like the first drop on a rollercoaster. Larkin’s grip on the phone case tightened until the plastic protested. He answered with a crisp “What.”

“Good morning,” Noah said.

Larkin glanced at the door to 5D. He could hear no movement on the other side. Keeping his voice low, Larkin said, “I’m at work.”

“Oh. So… everything went well at the doctor’s, then?”

“We’re not supposed to be speaking without a lawyer present.”

“I know.” But then Noah took a breath that sounded shaky and unsure.

“That was at your request, Noah.”

“I know, I know,” he repeated. “Sorry. I’m fine.”

“You don’t sound fine.” Larkin cradled the phone between his ear and shoulder, checked his watch, and asked, “Shouldn’t you be in class.”

“The kids are at the library. I have to pick them up in a few minutes. Listen, Everett….”

Larkin let the abrupt silence linger until he was certain that Noah was waiting for a cue. Reluctantly, he said, “I’m listening.”

“Can we talk? I mean, in person. Just us. No lawyers.” Noah took another breath, this one wetter.

And Larkin could imagine him, sitting in an empty classroom wallpapered in brightly colored construction paper, overlaid with 123s and ABCs, mentally preparing to pick up a group of twenty six- and-seven-year-olds who would all be asking Mr. Rider why his face was so red. Larkin closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose. “Fine.”