Larkin parked in the school zone on the corner of West 181st and Bennett Avenue. He turned off the engine, set an NYPD parking permit on the dash, then looked at Doyle, silent in the passenger seat. He understood the unique and incomparable heartbreak of having lost the unwinnable battle against death. Larkin understood it so well that he’d made it his life’s pursuit to seek justice in an unjust world. So he recognized, sympathized, with Camila Garcia’s tragedy. He knew Doyle’s sense of isolation and loneliness. But maybe Larkin was so surrounded with and so overwhelmed by death, had become so accustomed to compartmentalizing his thoughts and keeping the world at arm’s length, that he’d not realized Marco’s murder and Camila’s sorrow were too relatable for Doyle.

Larkin didn’t know the details of Abigail’s passing, of course. Hadn’t asked about her since March 31, when it’d become apparent how not okay Doyle really was, but it was more the hurt and loss of a child in a general sense that was eating away at him. An association of Doyle’s very own. An ever-constant reminder of the depression unto death that he’d survived seven years ago and kept living with ever since.

Had it been selfish of Larkin to seek Doyle’s help on a case involving children?

“Why was Doyle assigned his current session.”

And Craig Bailey, Doyle’s supervisor and senior artist, had answered, “He always takes the cases involving children. Those are the worst ones, you know? But he always takes them.”

Self-flagellation?

Self-destruction?

Or perhaps, like Larkin, Doyle sought a future for his victims that he’d been denied while growing up, that his own child had been denied as well.

Who are you hiding, Larkin wanted to ask. Who betrayed your trust and broke your heart. Who made such a gentle man so angry inside.

“Ira.”

Doyle glanced over.

“I would like to preface this question with confirmation that I, in no way, think or feel you are incapable of doing your job.”

He raised both eyebrows.

“Was it wrong of me to ask you to work this case.”

Doyle was quiet. He took a deep breath in, slowly let it out. “I’m sorry about earlier. It was extremely unprofessional of me.”

“I’ve gotten upset plenty of times during a case.”

Doyle laughed dryly. “I’m sure you haven’t tried to assault a suspect.”