A car heading downtown on Fifth Avenue drove past the Arsenal, windows down, “Stereo Hearts” by Gym Class Heroes pounding. Travis McCoy was asking to be kept inside your head like a favorite tune. Maybe, Larkin thought, that’s why he was so… different. His memory. His inability to let go, to forget, to move on. It wasn’t HSAM. It was an earworm.

He cracked a smile at his own joke. If only.

Doyle retrieved a pair of round tortoiseshell-framed sunglasses and slid them on. He started down the steps, calling over his shoulder, “Let’s get going.”

“I appreciate your professional expertise regarding the mask,” Larkin said after him. “And I look forward to the reconstruction of the skull, but there is no practical reason for you to keep shadowing me at this time.”

Doyle stopped, turned. Another gasp of spring air rustled his hair. “Do you know what I do most days?”

“You draw victims.”

“No. I draw perpetrators. Rapists, mostly. Assailants and burglars too.”

“At least your victims are still alive.”

“Most are, thank God. But yours should be too.”

And maybe Larkin understood what Doyle was trying to say right then. That his job as a forensic sketch artist was something akin to a middleman. He assisted in the pursuit of justice, but he wasn’t responsible for it. That was glory, vindication, respite for the lead detective. And that this sort of unseen role he played came with the promise of eventual burnout.

Larkin imagined it was like communicating—Noah called it that—communicating their problems all evening long, but still, Larkin went to bed with his heart as heavy as lead and had troubled dreams all night long when not dosing himself on sleeping aids. Because for all of the talking, talking, talking they did about every perceived issue in the life they’d built together, it was really all about Larkin’s shortcomings, right? He’d explained it all to Noah a hundred times, a thousand times, a million even, but his husband wasn’t listening anymore.

So what did it matter?

All that work fell on deaf ears. There was never a chance to bask in hard-fought acclaim.

Larkin knew what that burnout felt like.

Doyle wasn’t so terrible a detective to work with either. Minus his flirtatious habits, he was a natural conversationalist and quite smart. In fact, smarter than he seemed willing to let on, if the juxtaposition between what he said and how he presented himself was anything to judge by, which Larkin had. And Larkin was taking notice of his inaccurate deductions regarding the latter. Not that the lazy, rumpled appearance was a ploy or game to something bigger, something devious, but that it wasn’t who Doyle was. Not entirely.

Anyway. If Doyle’s schedule permitted further hands-on investigation, Larkin supposed he wouldn’t… mind the assistance.

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER FIVE