This time, Larkin met Doyle’s expression.
“If you’re going to have some kind of, I don’t know, fit….”
And like that, the frayed thread holding together Larkin’s patience and composure for this godawful shit Monday snapped. “Fit?” he repeated, his voice rising sharply, suddenly.
“If it happens again during our interview—”
“Myinterview. This is my case. We are not partners. Do you understand?” Larkin asked, voice pitching harshly a second time.
Doyle said nothing.
Twisting in his seat to face Doyle, seat belt taut against his chest, Larkin said, “You have two victims—children, I suspect—waiting at 1PP. The lead detective didn’t arrange an appointment with you prior to their arrival, which means these victims must have just come forward and they’re afraid by delaying the session, the children might forget vital details as to their assailants. No cop wants a case involving children, but based on the rise in your vocal pitch, tension in your facial muscles, and subconscious attempt to calm yourself, this session will be particularly brutal. So it must involve Special Victims. See?” Larkin asked. “There was no fit. I am perfectly capable of handling a myriad of situations while making competent deductions and rational decisions.”
“I never said—”
“Please get out.”
“Larkin—”
“I’m asking that you respect my boundaries and get out.”
Doyle pulled the handle, popped the door open, and climbed out. He collected his portfolio bag, shut the door, and walked toward the Honda without a glance back.
Larkin put his hazards on and sat there—shaking. “Fuck. Fuck.Fuck!” He punched the passenger seat several times before leaning back, breathing hard. Fumbling one-handed, Larkin opened the center console and removed a prescription bottle with his name on it. His hands continued to shake as he fought to get the cap off and then poured the contents into his palm.
It’d be easy. It’d be so easy. No more Grim. No more faggot. No more thunderstorms or sugar-and-smoke kisses or the city’s unwanted dead. No more whiskey voice talking about a fit, like he had a single fucking clue what a monumental achievement it was to get out of bed some days. No more feeling as if being alive were akin to a hospital flatline.
People don’t want to know what makes them uncomfortable.
Larkin clenched his fist around the pills, a few spilling between the seat and console, another into the footwell. He managed his phone free with his other hand and dialed Noah.
His husband’s wary voice answered on the third ring. “Hi.”
“Hey,” Larkin breathed.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” Larkin lied. “I had a minute. Wanted to hear your voice.”
“Liar,” Noah said, but there was a smile somewhere in there.
Larkin let out a quiet, shaky laugh. “It’s just been one of those days, honey. I’m sorry about this morning.”
“It’s all right. I know some of those cases get to you more than others.”
Larkin squeezed his eyes shut. More pills spilled from his clutch. He laughed again, more brittle, and shook his head. “Right.”
“Do you want to go out tonight after you see Dr. Myers?”
He cleared his throat and managed to say, “I’m usually tired after my appointments.”
“We haven’t had a date night in, like, a month, Everett.”
Larkin opened his hand and the Xanax fell across his lap and between his legs. Tears rolled down his cheeks as he said obediently, “Yes, honey.”
“But I guess I can order delivery… have it here by the time you get home.”
“That sounds good.”
