His parents were embarrassed by his trauma.
His doctor was fascinated.
His ex-husband was disgusted.
And then on March 30, Larkin had met Doyle, and for the first time since August 2, 2002, he’d felt different.
He’d feltbetter.
Larkin tried to swallow the wedge of emotion stuck in his throat.He tried to breathe through it, but he felt like he’d stepped on a landmine.Adam Worth, that psychopath, thought he could touch even one errant hair on Doyle’s head?
No.
Fuck no.
—pacing the night, identifying and cataloguing every creak, every groan, every sigh indicative of a hundred-year-old walk-up, waiting for the whisper that didn’t align, waiting to put a bullet between Adam Worth’s eyes, and then glass breaking on the street below, his sleep-deprived brain hearing instead a clap of thunder, Doyle’s face transposed over Patrick’s—dead in the mud, haloed by his own brains and blood—the baseball bat coming down on Larkin, and then his knees cracking as he dropped to the tile floor in the dark bathroom, vomiting into the toilet—
Larkin shook himself hard, like a dog coming in from the rain.He thumped his chest, coughed, dislodged the painful knot, and took a few shaky breaths.He couldn’t afford to get overwhelmed now, not when his night’s work had only just begun.
Count to ten, Doyle would say.
At six, Larkin was able to admit that from a policing standpoint, it’d be a huge misstep to not continue requesting Doyle’s assistance on these cases.Seven, Doyle possessed the artistic skills, mourning knowledge, and gut instinct that Larkin didn’t.Eight, Doyle knew when to ask questions and how to redirect a conversation.Nine, Doyle knew how to handle people.
He knew how to handle Larkin.
Ten.
Until Worth and his verifiable army of miscreants were caught, Larkin would just have to remain armed at all times.He’d require constant check-ins from Doyle, would watch over him while he slept, but most important of all, Larkin would have to take every terrifying nightmare his damaged brain could envision happening without complaint.He’d throw up, rinse his mouth, then return to his safeguarding of the man he loved beyond words, beyond comprehension, because what other choice did he have?
Every compulsive behavior.
Every debilitating association.
Every fucked-up, neurotic, intrusive thought.
He could handle them.They’d been a part of life every day for eighteen years, after all.
Adam Worth would not beat Larkin.
COME FIND ME
Larkin whispered, “I intend to.”He tapped Doyle’s name in his list of contacts before putting the phone to his ear.
Doyle answered on the second ring.He sounded sleepy.“Hey.”
“Hi.I’m so sorry to wake you.”
“That’s okay.”The bedsheets rustled and Doyle bumped something—probably the alarm clock—before saying, “I take it you’re not calling because you’re on your way home?”
“Unfortunately not.Listen… there’s been—” Larkin faltered, tripped over the words.There was no coming back from this.
“What’s wrong?”Doyle sounded more alert.
“A body was found at Pier 34.It’s Matilde Wagner.”
“Holy shit.”
“There was a message, as well as an artifact found on her body.It’s Adam Worth—the sender.”
