“I know.”
“Six o’clock.”
“Right.”
“I emailed her the notes for the last three weeks.”
“Thank you.”
Noah hesitated but then added, like he couldn’t fucking help but wedge the last inch of the blade into Larkin’s heart, “Maybe you should set a reminder on your phone.”
“I don’t need a reminder.”
“You forgot—”
“Dr. Myers is habitual routine. Every third Monday at 6:00 p.m. I don’t forget.”
Noah’s shoulders had barely worked their way down to resting before they were at his ears again. “Of course. It’s just those inconsequential details you forget, like us being married.”
Larkin gave up. He expelled a quiet breath, wanted to scream because he could feel how his chest shook with the effort, then scrambled for the carefully modulated tone that was his security blanket. “I’ll see you this evening.”
Noah raised both hands in a gesture that could have been “I’m going to strangle you” or “talk to the hand,” and honestly, Larkin would have welcomed either outcome right then. But Noah managed to bite back whatever nasty comment was on the tip of his tongue, turned, and stalked out of the precinct.
Larkin watched the door shut. The details of the quiet but intense argument were already housed in his long-term memory. The words, the expressions, the sensation of having his soul scraped from his body with a melon baller, leaving only the raw skin behind—it was all one more goddamn association. Always there, ready to hurt, Larkin only needed to retrieve the memory like plucking a card. He closed his eyes, took another breath.
’Til death do us part.
Larkin squared his shoulders and turned around to face Doyle. “If you insist on joining me, we need to go.” He pushed open the door and stepped outside.
The late-morning sky was still gray, but the black clouds, heavy with thunder and heartbreak, were now past the Hudson. The air held a cool dampness that chilled Larkin’s sweat-slick skin. He moved down the steps and crossed the street between passing vehicles. He tapped the key fob in his hand, the alarm on his Audi chirping in time with the pound of shoes on asphalt. Larkin slid behind the wheel as Doyle hurried to squeeze by the front bumper and opened the passenger door. Larkin started the engine.
Doyle shoved his portfolio bag in the back before wedging himself into the front seat. Noah was tall, but Doyle still had to adjust the seat so his knees weren’t knocking the glove compartment.
Larkin maneuvered out of his parking spot and pulled to the corner. He glanced uptown and made out Noah’s back as he strode toward the subway among the morning foot traffic. Larkin kept driving west on Sixty-Seventh. The silence in the car was deafening.
“How long have you been married?”
Larkin adjusted his grip on the steering wheel. “Four years.”
“What’s he do?”
“Teaches first grade.”
“Wholesome,” Doyle stated.
Larkin said nothing.
“Sorry.”
Larkin briefly looked at Doyle. “For what.”
“I had no idea. I wouldn’t have—if I knew.”
Rolling one shoulder, Larkin said, “I didn’t realize you were actually trying.”
Doyle leaned an elbow on the door and dragged his fingers through his hair a few times before saying, “You’re going to give me a complex.”
“You did your best, I’m sure.”
