Connor stepped into the hall and vanished around the corner.
Larkin peeled his gloves off, meeting Doyle’s doubtful expression.
“I don’t know how successful this sketch is going to be.”
“Statistics regarding composite sketches vary drastically between departments, the public, and forensic artists, but the average success rate of a sketch leading to finding a missing person or suspect is between nine and forty-two percent.”
Doyle looked mildly surprised before saying, “I average one in three.”
Larkin raised his hands palm up, as if his point had been made.
“I appreciate your faith in me but—”
“When have you known me to base any decision on blind belief,” Larkin asked.
“Never.”
“I don’t place confidence in your composite skills simply because I find you extremely attractive when you’re in your element, and those idiosyncratic habits of yours, even when you’re hyperfocused, to be quite charming.”
“But it helps, right?”
“It certainly does.”
Doyle smiled, and it was like a switch being turned on, his entire body practically incandescent.
“In our time working together, your talent has led to the identity of Andrew Gorman, Roger Hunt, and Dicky Maddox. That’s three out of three. I only work with the best, and statistically, that’s you. Never mind what Connor ordered—I’masking if you would make a composite.”
It was like a bubble had formed around them just then, encapsulating them in an untouchable privacy lasting only a heartbeat, a breath, long enough for Doyle to say in his quiet, smoky voice, “I’ll do anything for you.”
The words hit Larkin square in the chest and repeated over and over like an echo trapped in a cave.
I’ll do anything for you.
Anything for you.
For you.
Larkin’s eyes welled and stung with sudden and unexpected tears. Visceral reactions to memory associations were nothing new, but Larkin was taken aback by his brain’s sudden necessity to contrast and comparethis—where he existed in others’ lives, what his worth was to them—provoked by nothing more than a strategically placed pronoun. It must have been the Xanax. Or rather, the lack thereof.
He blinked a few times and the tears spilled down his cheeks.
Doyle took an immediate step forward. “Evie?”
Larkin touched his face, smearing the salt tracks. “I’m sorry.”
“What’re you sorry for?”
“I—” Larkin paused, considered, then shook his head. “I don’t know.” He patted his pockets for a tissue, glancing up as Doyle unrolled his sleeve and held his arm out before Larkin. “What.”
“Dry off.”
Larkin raised an eyebrow. “I’m not wiping my face on your clean shirt.” But when Doyle only smiled softly, Larkin closed the space between them and wiped his eyes and cheeks on the sleeve of his partner’s shirt. Larkin straightened, cleared his throat, took a breath. “Do you know what I think about sometimes.”
Doyle shook his head.
“Light bulbs.”
“Light bulbs?”
