“On East Sixteenth. Please come get me.”
In retrospect, it hadn’t been the most tactful, nor informative, phone call Larkin could have made to his partner, but between the adrenaline, the bloodshed, the pain, the automatic cataloguing of every violent detail, he was barely treading water. If it hadn’t been for the Xanax already in his system at the time of the first gunshot, Larkin figured he’d have had a full-blown panic attack by now.
Not because of the job, but because there’d been that single moment Larkin had thought he’d been shot in the head.
That his skull had been cracked a second time.
And he’d have to endure unfathomable traumaall over again.
It was the rich and smooth baritone of Ira Doyle—a voice Larkin had become so intimate with that he was confident he could identify it in a sea of thousands all speaking at once—that put a sudden stop to the negative thoughts threatening to pull Larkin into the blackest parts of his own brain and leave him there to corrode.
Doyle said, “I’m with the NYPD and I’m looking for my partner.” Someone, a nurse, most likely, asked a question, and he answered, “His name is Everett Larkin.”
Larkin glanced toward the open curtain without moving his head, so as not to get poked in the eye with the doctor’s needle. A nurse in blue scrubs appeared from around the corner, just long enough to point in his direction, and when Doyle came into view a heartbeat later, Larkin felt his insides uncoil, felt himself able to take a great big breath and experience the sunshine and jubilance that crowded into that cramped and sterile space alongside Doyle.
Support.
Solace.
Love.
Larkin asked, “How did you get here so quickly.”
“Cruiser,” Doyle answered distractedly, like it was literally the last thing he’d been expecting to discuss. He reached a hand out toward Larkin.
Larkin took it into his own, raised their joined hands up to his eyes to study Doyle’s big knuckles, strong fingers, and noted, “Your hands are dirty.”
Doyle blinked a few times, took a step closer to inspect for himself, and said, “It’s clay pigment. I guess I didn’t—Evie, what happened?”
“I was shot at.”
“What?”
“I think the bullet hit one of the stone balusters. A piece must have broken free and hit me in the head.”
Doyle furrowed his brow and opened his mouth to reply, but the doctor cut in. “And that’s seven stitches, Mr. Larkin. I’m going to prescribe you some antibiotics, a nurse is going to bandage the wound, and then we can discharge you. Did you have any questions before I go?”
“No.”
The doctor nodded, removed his latex gloves with a snap, and stepped out of the not-so-private space.
Doyle took advantage of his departure by immediately drawing closer. He tapped Larkin’s knee with his free hand and moved to stand between his legs as Larkin parted them. “I thought you were going to go speak with Detective Stolle?”
“I did. We were speaking outside.”
“In front of the precinct? And someone… started shooting?”
Larkin spun his mental Rolodex and watched each memory fly by in a quick but accurate succession:
Green Army jacket.
Semiautomatic.
Boom.
Concrete bruising knees.
Blood in his eyes.
