“As needed,” Larkin said.
Doyle gave him a questioning, suspicious look. “Yeah, I can read. It says one tablet up to twice daily, as needed.”
Larkin scoffed, grabbed the pill, and dry-swallowed it. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the headrest. As Doyle closed the bottle and returned it to the console, Larkin was struck with an almost overwhelming urge to cry. He covered his face with one hand and took in a shuddering breath.
“Last night,” Doyle began, his voice in harmony with thepat,pat,patof rain on the windshield. “I told you I don’t drink.”
Larkin didn’t speak, didn’t move.
“I self-medicated after losing Abigail. Hard. Gin was my go-to. It’s okay to hurt, but you can’t blame yourself.”
Larkin lowered his hand and looked at Doyle.
Doyle’s eyes were too bright. “You have to be careful with that stuff, okay? It comes with directions for a reason.” He looked out the windshield, shook his head, then opened the passenger door.
Larkin peeled his tongue from the roof of his mouth to… say what, exactly? Apologize for being a pill-popper? Beg Doyle not to scream at him the way Noah had?
Doyle leaned down and motioned Larkin toward him. “Slide over. I’m driving.”
“It—it doesn’t affect my driving,” Larkin said.
“That’s great. Slide over.”
Larkin awkwardly maneuvered himself from the driver to passenger seat, which he had to pull forward because, Jesus, Doyle was tall. Door still open, rain still falling, Doyle crouched and studied him.
“I’m sorry,” Larkin whispered.
Doyle shook his head. He reached across Larkin’s lap and tugged the hair tie a few times. “I don’t want you to be sorry. I want you to be okay.”
“I’m not.”
“You had a life-changing night, didn’t sleep well, and this case—”
“No. I mean, I haven’t been okay for eighteen years.” Larkin looked at Doyle, at the raindrops glistening in his dark brown hair like little diamonds. He was beautiful. And so kind. Why the hell was he expelling energy on a hopeless case like Everett Larkin?
Doyle leaned up, pressed his forehead to Larkin’s, and carded his fingers briefly through his short hair. “There isn’t a finish line in this race. It’s not about sprinting—it’s about stamina to keep going.” He stood, shut the door, and moved around the front bumper to the driver side. Doyle slid in partway, pushed the seat back, then managed to get comfortable. He checked the mirrors before pulling into traffic.
Larkin wasn’t riding that hazy high he got from Xanax because one pill wasn’t enough for that “don’t give a shit” euphoria, but hewascalm. Well, calmer. When the antianxiety meds wore off, he was going to need another dose just to deal with the fact that Doyle knew he required pharmaceuticals to function, let alone that Doyle had had front-row seats to a memory meltdown, and that, if Doyle were smart, he would run for the fucking hills after this case was closed.
But later. Larkin would worry about all of that later.
In the meantime, Ray O’Halloran had come through with a case number to present to the Property Clerk in order to obtain any physical evidence taken during Natasha’s nonexistent investigation. He’d also followed up with employment records for Danielle and had sent Larkin a text:
Strippers fill out W-2s these days. Who knew? Danielle Moreno worked at Full-Flavored. E. 2nd & Ave. A.
“Full-Flavored is Manhattan’s premiere club for adult entertainment. Hosted by mature women with skillsandexperience,” Doyle read from his phone. “We offer two stages, a full bar, and a dozen big-screen TVs playing all the latest sports—” He put a hand over his mouth to stifle a very uncop-like giggle.
Larkin, hands in his trouser pockets, turned to stare.
“Sorry. It’s just so aggressively straight.” In an announcer-like style, and dropping his already deep voice another octave, Doyle exclaimed, “Have a beer, eat some meat, catch the game, see some tits.”
“Never say tits again.”
“That wasn’t me. That was my heterosexual, alpha-male persona.”
“Jesus Christ.” Larkin sighed loudly and directed his exasperation and stare toward the clerk at the front desk who’d been patently ignoring him for twenty minutes now. Manhattan’s Property Clerk was located in the basement of 1PP, and this woman, who Larkin felt vaguely resembled and even sounded a bit like Roz fromMonsters, Inc.,had been “searching” for their case number in her computer system the entire time. “We were the first ones in line.”
“It’s always like this,” Doyle murmured.
