She rolled her eyes like every teenager did, but obediently returned. “I wanted a blue Gatorade, but the nurse gave me cherry Pedialyte and it tastes like mouthwash.”

“Pedialyte is better for dehydration,” Doyle said as he motioned Larkin to take the spare seat. “Megan, this is Everett Larkin. Larkin, this is Megan Flouride.”

Larkin sat in the shit-brown chair opposite the counselor, who hadn’t said anything, was merely watching the interaction, noted Megan’s pink boots beside the bed and the scuffmarks that were actually words written in Sharpie—PUNK’S NOT DEAD—and replied, “Flouride is the stage name of Geoffrey Lyall, the bass player for the Dead Kennedys.”

Megan glanced at Doyle.

“I told you he was smart.”

Larkin fought down the urge to smile at the compliment. To Megan, he said, “I’d like to ask you some questions, if that’s okay.”

“About… the dude?” Megan asked.

“Gary Reynold, yes.”

“Can Ira stay?” Megan’s expression softened when she looked at Doyle a second time, grew both hopeful and timid as she so clearly stood at the crossroads of whether she wanted to view Doyle as a parental figure or as a man her young and clueless heart was smitten with.

“Detective Doyle will stay,” Larkin agreed.

Megan must have picked up on the hardening in Larkin’s tone, the clear usage of Doyle’s title, because her eyes narrowed and she promptly returned her gaze to the television. She studied Christina Applegate’s character, overwhelmed as the new executive administration assistant, and asked, “What’s a fax machine do, anyway?”

The counselor made a noise of distress at the question.

“Megan,” Larkin prompted, “what were you doing in Mr. Reynold’s apartment.”

She shrugged and, for a long minute, fiddled with the volume on the remote control.

Up three.

Down three.

Up two.

Down four.

“Makin’ some cash,” she eventually answered.

“How.”

Another one-shouldered shrug. “Taking pictures.”

Doyle moved to the foot of the bed, took a seat, and studied her. “Megan,” he said, his voice like a blanket, fresh and warm from the dryer. “We think that Mr. Reynold might have been involved in hurting some children in the ’90s.”

“Hurting them?” she echoed.

“Killing them,” Larkin clarified.

Megan shot him a startled, terrified expression, that thick-skinned attitude of someone who’d been left to care for themselves too long and at too young an age was briefly overwhelmed with the realization of having gotten away with flirting with death. “Is—is he gonna kill me too?”

“No,” Larkin said. “Detective Doyle arrested him.”

“That’s right,” Doyle cut in. “And there’s a very nice police officer right outside your door who won’t let anyone in. You’re completely safe.” He shifted, patting Megan’s hand a few times. “The thing is, these kids died over twenty years ago, and no one has ever been held accountable.”