“What are you talking about.”
Doyle stared at the faded case numbers on the side of the nearest eye-level box.“The stalker-turned-shooter,” he clarified.“Driving the same make, model, color even, as my car?It’s Worth trying to get in your head again, I know it.”Doyle tapped the box absently before sparing Larkin a sideways glance.“You made a really stupid decision last month that almost cost you your life.He knows he can’t brute-force us apart, so if he doesn’t want me helping you, wants to keep the game between the two of you, best to lean back into the emotional manipulation tactics.And if you thought, for even a moment, that there was a chance I could’ve been harassing Noah—”
“Ira,” Larkin interrupted, and his voice sounded harsh, even to his own ears.“I haven’t been able to sleep for weeks.It’s not because of the Prozac.It’s because I’m waiting for that sonofabitch to walk through our front door so I can put a bullet in his brain.I wouldkillfor you.”
Doyle didn’t move, like a deer caught in the headlights.
“Adam Worth will never make me doubt the love of my life.”
It was seven very, very long seconds before Doyle finally exhaled, and the tension in his posture, the stiffness in his shoulders, the flexed muscles in his forearms—they all relaxed like a noose around his neck had been loosened.“I didn’t mean to upset you.”
Larkin shook his head in a manner that seemed to say,You didn’t, and joined Doyle at the wall of boxes.
“We’re gonna talk about the no-sleeping thing.You know that, right?”
“One crisis at a time.”
The smart move would have been for the Cold Case Squad to store boxes, and the files therein, chronologically from the get-go.
They hadn’t been, of course.
Larkin and Doyle split the search—Larkin crouched to pull red-tagged cases on the bottom shelves, while Doyle stood and reached the ones from overhead.Despite the work hardly being more than a monotonous chore, Larkin had to exert considerable effort in maintaining both mental and emotional distance from the reality of the task at hand.Each file was someone born, someone named, someone who had dreamed and hoped and loved, and despite his recent revelation about the spectrum of existence, these were still people who had been robbed of having a good death, and the injustice of it could andwouldsend Larkin into a spiral if he let it.
Porter appeared in the threshold of the Morgue at 12:07 p.m., nursing a fresh cup of coffee and holding the final bite of a chocolate-frosted donut.“Whaddya fishin’ for?”
Larkin reached and set another red-tagged folder on the table before pivoting on one foot to address Porter in his crouch.“A Jane Doe from 1982.”
“Good luck.”
“Did you not want the cake batter donut,” Larkin asked, furrowing his brow a little.
Porter looked at the frosting melting between his thumb and index finger before shrugging.“Moto got it for you.”
Larkin opened his mouth to say… well, he didn’t quite know, but a phone call cut short his consideration.He looked over his shoulder as Doyle retrieved the cell from his pocket and answered, “Hey, Craig.”
“Who’s Craig?”Porter asked before eating the last piece of donut.
“Doyle’s supervisor,” Larkin answered distractedly.
“Right now?”Doyle asked into the phone.
Larkin frowned.“Bailey already approved my request for your assistance on this case.Is he negating—”
Doyle held a hand up to stop Larkin’s protestations.
“Uh-oh,” Porter said.“Trouble in paradise.”
“Thank you, Porter,” Larkin said, clipped.
“Maybe you and Craig should arm wrestle over Doyle,” Porter suggested amusedly.
Larkin pivoted on his heel a second time.“I’m deceptively strong.”
“Uh-huh.”
Larkin arched a brow at the tone of disbelief.“But that is irrelevant, as the man has about as much muscle mass as a ham sandwich.”
Porter tried to suppress a sudden laugh, but the snort jostled his coffee cup and he spilled the contents.“Shit….”He quickly switched the mug to his other hand, shaking the wet one while leaving the doorway of the Morgue and calling, “I got coffee on my damn shoes, Grim!”
