A tomb, a sepulcher, a mausoleum for the dead, cared for and protected by those they had left behind too soon.

“Please, Detective,” Camila murmured from his side. She beckoned Larkin to enter Marco’s bedroom.

Larkin squared his shoulders and took a step back in time. The floor popped under his steps, and it smelled a bit closed-up. There was a bed, desk, and dresser—a matching set in pine—their design clunky and overwhelming in the small bedroom. The comforter was a floral pastel pattern, something Camila had likely purchased from a department store as far back as the ’90s, with a matching dust ruffle. It looked recently made—an impression of a hand still lingered near the foot where Camila would have leaned over to tuck a corner in.

Childhood keepsakes and relics of a bygone era littered the top of the dresser: an unplugged lava lamp, two Trolls—green and blue hair, respectively—a handheld Tiger-brand Batman video game, a plastic character cup likely from a fast-food restaurant half-full of loose change, four AA batteries, half a dozen home VHS tapes with penned titles such as: Dragon Ball Z, Super Mario Bros., and A Nightmare on Elm Street, the last of which had been crossed out and looked to have been recorded over with The Last Unicorn.

“Marco liked cartoons,” Camila stated. “The other boys all watched those horror movies where the psycho kills a bunch of teenagers.”

Larkin nodded, moving to the opposite side of the room toward the desk.

No computer, but then again, this room was a time capsule. Less than 40 percent of American households owned a computer in the late ’90s, and most kids weren’t so lucky as to horde those behemoth towers and monitors in their rooms. Instead, there was a stack of books: To Kill a Mockingbird, The Great Gatsby, Go Ask Alice. Assigned reading, Larkin concluded. He drew his gloved finger along the spines. Laminated stickers marked them as library editions. Only twenty-three years past due. There was a two-inch, three-ring binder that looked like Marco had had friends doodle all over, based on the differing penmanship. Larkin lifted the top. A half-finished report on the unreliability of Hamlet as a narrator for Mr. Reynold’s fourth-period World Literature class. It was the go-to topic for any high school senior hellbent on wrapping their English class with a passing grade. A desktop lamp and a stuffed bear with texture like the Velveteen Rabbit completed Marco’s setup.

Larkin turned to Camila in the doorway. “May I take a more thorough look.”

She hesitated, glancing from one side of the room to the other, as if searching for a reason to deny the request.

“I’ll return everything to its rightful place,” Larkin promised.

Reluctantly, Camila said, “I suppose.” She took a step back into the hall, told Larkin she would be in the kitchen, then departed.