But twenty-one days ago, Larkin had had an epiphany that’d scared the hell out of him: Ira Doyle was the treasure his heart had been searching for, and if he didn’t sayyes, he’d be making the biggest, most irreversible mistake of his life. So twenty-one days ago, they’d begun dating, and Larkin began to dread the moment Doyle would rightly want more intimacy and his drug-abused body would betray him, like it’d done with Noah. He’d begun to count the seconds until Doyle realized for the first time that dating Everett Larkin was simply a burden not worth its reward.
“—my nipples or not.”
Larkin blinked, tuned back into Doyle’s smooth baritone voice, and asked, “What about your nipples.”
Doyle tossed his shirt to the floor. “I can’t tell if you were staring at them or something up here,” he clarified, tapping the side of his head for emphasis.
“Oh…. You have very nice nipples.”
“Uh-huh.” Doyle’s smile was placating. “So, what was in the package?”
At that, Larkin climbed out of bed. He ventured into the dark kitchen, returning a moment later with the phone he’d left on the floor earlier that night. Larkin opened the photos app, offered it to Doyle, and climbed back into bed as he said, “A VHS tape. Watch me, Detective Larkin.”
Doyle frowned a little, swiping through the pictures. “The handwriting is different.”
“Yes.” Larkin accepted the phone when Doyle finished. “It’s being checked for trace evidence before I can view it.”
“That could take weeks,” Doyle said as he unbuttoned his trousers.
“I suspect Lieutenant Connor spent the evening cashing in on some favors owed to see it’s punted to the top of the pile,” Larkin remarked. “He’s unreasonably insistent that I find an explanation other than harassment from someone in uniform.”
Doyle’s brows were still drawn together as he shucked off the rest of his clothes. He drew the covers back and climbed into bed, saying, “The first letter you received included a subway token, which led to that death portrait of Janie Doe.”
“Correct.”
“The second letter had ticket stubs,” Doyle continued, “so maybe a murder that occurred on Broad—”
“Jesus Christ.”
“What’s wrong?”
“It’s not a simple murder at all,” Larkin said to himself before hurriedly climbing out of bed.
“Where’re you going?”
Larkin paused at the foot of the bed, looked at Doyle, and only then seemed to acknowledge that his boyfriend had stripped down naked but for a pair of thigh-hugging boxer briefs in a stark white that made his medium complexion practically glow bronze. Larkin’s stomach fluttered, almost nauseating in its intensity, like his vagus nerve rested on a hair trigger. He said to Doyle, “You’re distracting me.”
“What?”
“Unintentionally so.” Larkin moved around the bed to Doyle’s side and tugged the sheet over him.
“Evie—”
“I was at a scene yesterday—a former peep show on Broadway. The mummified remains of a woman were found walled-up.”
Doyle still looked a little confused, but began counting points with his fingers. “Uh… ticket stubs, former theater, more or less anyway, and Broadway is in the Theater District…. You think the contents of that tape will be directly related to your new vic?”
“Yes, exactly. This woman’s murder has likely gone unnoticed for over thirty years, as the peep show was shuttered in ’89 due to neighborhood cleanup initiatives.”
“But that means whoever is responsible for delivering the package also knew where you were yesterday.”
Again, Larkin said, “Yes. This is the point I keep trying to make with my lieutenant.”
“When were you at the scene?” Doyle asked.
“I arrived at 4:57,” Larkin answered.
“And you called me at 7:30.”
