“You throw it into the eyes of the devil,” Doyle answered. “And it keeps the evil at bay. My grandmother was very superstitious.”
“I thought she was Catholic.”
“Same thing for the Irish.”
Larkin considered the explanation. “Do you believe it.”
Doyle shrugged. “I guess not. But why take chances?” He smiled and returned to studying the menu.
The same waitress, now sans plates, sidled up to their booth, pen and pad in-hand. She looked about thirty—short, chubby, cute, with thick red hair pulled into a ponytail and a face heavy with freckles. “Ready to order?”
“Salad with grilled chicken,” Larkin said, ordering from memory.
“I’ll have the corned beef hash,” Doyle said as he put his phone away.
“How do you want the eggs?” she asked.
“Sunny-side up.”
She nodded, scribbled, then asked, “Anything to drink? We’ve got a full bar.”
“Just coffee,” Doyle answered.
Larkin nodded and echoed, “Coffee is fine.”
She tottered to the counter, returned with a carafe and two mugs, filled them, then deposited a handful of individual creamers and sugar packets on the table from the front pocket of her apron before leaving them alone.
Larkin watched Doyle doctor his coffee. “I suppose tomorrow you’ll be back at 1PP, but I can keep you apprised of my meetings—what’s wrong.”
Doyle’s brows were drawn together in a clear representation of dislike, but his mouth turned down in what was more akin to disappointment, leaving him with an unbalanced expression. He said, while dumping a packet of sugar in his coffee, “I was hoping we could leave Larkin and Doyle at the door and just be Evie and Ira for thirty minutes.”
“Oh. Right. Okay.”
Doyle’s face relaxed and he took a sip of coffee.
“Did you enjoy the forensic art symposium,” Larkin asked. Then he shook his head. “No. That’s still work-related. I’m finding the novelty of having a partner who I can talk very frankly with, in regard to my profession, to not being wearing off.”
“I think you’ve just been holding it in a long time.”
“Case-confidentiality aside, Noah didn’t like me talking about my day. He said it was too sad, too sick, and made me too obsessive.” Larkin studied his left forearm on the tabletop, turned his hand to confirm the unassuming silver wedding band was gone, even if its baggage remained, and asked, “Having seen what can happen… would you ever get married.”
“I almost did.”
Larkin cocked his head inquisitively.
Doyle leaned back in the booth, resting an arm along its back. “It’s embarrassing, so no laughing.”
“I’d never laugh at you.”
“When Abigail was three, we’d go to the park every evening after I got home from work. He was there with his son, and we got to talking, and—surprise—we had a lot in common. He asked if we could give the kids a playdate, which, you know, was a convenient excuse for asking me out. But I was very single, hadn’t had sleep in about two years, and someone found the exhausted parent aesthetic attractive, so I was happy to say yes. Things moved really fast after that. Too fast. And I saw signs that something about the relationship wasweird, but… I don’t know. I really liked being loved. Or what presented as love, anyway.”
“I admit,” Larkin began, “I haven’t surmised the twist in this story yet.”
Doyle took another drink of coffee before asking, “Remember when we met, and I joked that all the hot guys are already married?”
Larkin felt his mouth drop open in complete surprise. “He was living a double life?”
“More like a quadruple life,” Doyle clarified. “Not only was he already married—to the woman who birthed his son—but while he was also dating me for six months, he was seeing another guy for about four of those months, and fucking an NYU grad student whenever he had thirty seconds to spare. None of us knew about each other.”
