“Really?” Noah sounded hopeful—happy, even. “How about Skylight Lounge? Where we went for our anniversary. I can get a table for 6:30.”

The deadbolt of 5D was thrown. The chain lock slid free.

Larkin raised his head as the door opened.

Camila studied him from the threshold. She asked suddenly, curtly, “Are you going to sit on that dirty floor in your nice suit all day?”

Larkin hesitated a fraction of a second before he said into the phone, “Goodbye, Noah,” hung up, and climbed to his feet.

Camila’s gesture was irritated as she asked, “Well? Are you coming in?”

“Yes. Thank you, ma’am.” Larkin stepped through the doorway and into an immaculate front room that doubled as both living and dining room.

A plump tan couch was pushed up against the far wall with a knockoff Queen Anne oval coffee table set before it and a matching tan recliner to the right. White lace curtains in the open window to the left billowed in the morning breeze. Sunshine bounced off the glass of dozens of family photos displayed on the wall above the couch—Camila in a wedding dress alongside a big-shouldered, thick-necked man with a mustache who Larkin had to only assume was Mr. Garcia, but mostly, they were school photos of Marco. His lifetime on full display, from that gleeful kindergartener, the self-conscious elementary boy who’d lost all his front teeth at the same time, to the handsome teen on the verge of manhood in a snapshot from prom with a banner proclaiming the night’s theme to be Enchanted Forest.

Whatever that meant.

A television sat dark across from the couch, and the dining table near the front door was spotless—not even a placemat sat on its surface. A hall with an open doorway on the left, the scent of Fabuloso wafting out, marked it as probably being the kitchen. The closed doors beyond were likely bedrooms and the bathroom.

“Please sit,” Camila said with another wave, this time in the direction of the couch. “I’ll make coffee.”

“That’s not necessary.”

She said nothing to that and walked into the kitchen.

Larkin moved to the mantelpiece under the window, considered the carefully arranged religious talismans, before crouching to read the spines of books on the shelf below, only to realize they were actually all photo albums. Larkin gently tugged one free, its plastic-covered pages peeling apart like the loud crack of chewing gum. Big glasses and bigger hair overlain with distinct yellowing and discoloration marked their origins as the ’70s and ’80s. Lots of big family gatherings. Lots of smiling faces. So many photos of Marco.

“I wanted to be a photographer.”

Larkin abruptly stood and turned, still holding the album.