“7:32,” Larkin corrected. “I left my appointment with Dr. Myers at 6:51, drove home, parked, picked up a slice on the corner, spoke with Mr. Gabel for under a minute, then opened the box.”
Doyle scrubbed his face with both hands. “Someone’s potentially known this victim’s been in the wall all this time and was then banking on you,specifically, to attend that crime scene. Which would imply the need to keep eyes on you.”
“Mildly concerning, but I concur.”
“And once confirmed you were busy on location, they had a two-and-a-half-hour window to get from Midtown to the Village.”
“Less, actually. Mr. Gabel left the package at our door. I need to speak with him again.”
Doyle caught Larkin’s wrist before he could leave the room. “Evie, it’s the middle of the night and you’re in your underwear. It can wait a few hours.”
“But I—”
Doyle pulled the black hair tie Larkin wore on his left wrist, letting it snap back as he let go.
“Ouch.”
Doyle said gently, “Come lie down with me.”
For precisely seventeen years, ten months, and nine days, Larkin had suffered silently, relentlessly. He suffered the physical hurts, suffered the emotional damage, suffered the film projector of violence on its endless loop. He suffered injustice and the gross magnitude of irrevocable change forced upon him.
He suffered meaninglessness.
Of losing Patrick, of losing his own identity, all of it—everything.
Larkin refused to believe that August 2, 2002, had been predestined—that Patrick’s fate was to never experience adulthood. But he also shunned the notion that life was nothing more than interconnected randomness without any inherent worth. It had left him at a crossroads, trying to read the writing on the wall, but words were in mirror-script, and when he turned it onto a looking glass, it was like trying to make sense of “Jabberwocky.”
Nietzsche had written that man did not repudiate suffering, but instead willed it, sought it out: Notsuffering,but the senselessness of suffering.Man needed purpose, needed reason, lest he fall victim to suicidal Nihilism. There was danger in giving sense to suffering, however. It gave way to the birth of something more venomous: guilt. But if man had meaning, had will, he would be happy, and despite the destructive nature,man will wishNothingnessrather than not wishat all.
For the first time, while surrounded by the comfort of the city at night, holding Doyle in his arms, kissing his lips, wanting not only tomorrow but longing for a future, Larkin understood the danger of man’s will. Because to give meaning to his suffering implied that Larkin would have never found Doyle without Patrick’s murder—that his own happiness had been contingent on the brutal death of another human.
I don’t deserve to wish for Nothingness.
I don’t deserve to wish at all.
Guilt.
Chapter Four
Larkin’s circadian rhythm didn’t support early rising.
His natural twenty-four-hour schedule looked much closer to beginning a day at eleven o’clock and retiring sometime around two in the morning, but some long-dead jerkoff with his thumb on society had deemed it necessary that the vast majority of working professionals wake with the morning larks, which was why Larkin stood in front of the open closet at 6:32 a.m., frowning, bleary-eyed, his usually so smartly styled hair in complete disarray, mentally constructing the day’s ensemble.
“—just want to have a look at it for myself.”
Larkin glanced to his left, watching as Doyle entered the bedroom, freshly showered, hair still damp and already sporting its usual unkempt appearance, smelling a touch like heaven, and talking on the phone he held between his ear and shoulder.
Doyle wore rich brown trousers and was busily buttoning the front of his light-blue shirt, obscuring a chest toned from years of yoga, and, in Larkin’s opinion,justthe right amount of hair. “Sure thing.” Doyle looked up, caught Larkin’s eyes, and smiled. “Thanks, Craig. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He lowered the cell, ended the call, and pocketed it before saying, “Good morning, sunshine.”
Larkin grunted.
Doyle was unfazed as he asked, “Mind if I tag along with you today?”
Larkin stared.
Doyle bent to collect the navy tie he’d tossed to the floor the night before and put it around his neck. He moved close enough to kiss the side of Larkin’s head. “We’ll talk when you’re awake.”
Larkin stopped Doyle. He shook his head and sighed a long-suffering sort of sigh before sliding the tie free from Doyle’s neck. Larkin chose a burgundy tie from the rack in the closet and offered it instead.
