At 12:07 p.m., as Larkin drove back to Precinct 19, Doyle’s phone rang. He answered with that same liquidness in his voice—easy, accessible, reassuring. Yes, that was the word Larkin had been struggling to pin down. Doyle had a reassuring voice. Like he might have read aloud the lunch specials at a hole-in-the-wall joint with a C-grade notice in the window and the weighted blanket sensation of his words would have convinced Larkin they were about to have the best meal of his entire life, no need to worry about those health code violations. So it was rather surprising, when at a red light, Larkin glanced at Doyle and saw an intense frown at odds with that comforting tone.

Doyle’s free hand rubbed up and down his thigh in a self-soothing gesture, the tweed fabric rustling under the touch. “How old?” He hadn’t liked the murmured answer, Doyle’s expression growing more pronounced. “Both of them? If I can have the particulars of the case beforehand… thanks. I’ll be there in about twenty minutes.” He said goodbye, tapped End, and pocketed the phone.

The light turned green and Larkin took his foot off the brake. He was silent—no reason to state the obvious, after all. When he turned onto Sixty-Seventh Street, all Larkin said was, “I’ll be in touch when the OCME has the cast ready.” He double-parked a few cars down from the blue Honda.

“That’ll be great.” Doyle paused before adding, “Sorry this changes our plans.”

Larkin shrugged.

Doyle put his hand on the door handle, then said, “You know, whatever happened earlier, you should tell me.”

This time, Larkin met Doyle’s expression.

“If you’re going to have some kind of, I don’t know, fit….”

And like that, the frayed thread holding together Larkin’s patience and composure for this godawful shit Monday snapped. “Fit?” he repeated, his voice rising sharply, suddenly.

“If it happens again during our interview—”

“My interview. This is my case. We are not partners. Do you understand?” Larkin asked, voice pitching harshly a second time.

Doyle said nothing.

Twisting in his seat to face Doyle, seat belt taut against his chest, Larkin said, “You have two victims—children, I suspect—waiting at 1PP. The lead detective didn’t arrange an appointment with you prior to their arrival, which means these victims must have just come forward and they’re afraid by delaying the session, the children might forget vital details as to their assailants. No cop wants a case involving children, but based on the rise in your vocal pitch, tension in your facial muscles, and subconscious attempt to calm yourself, this session will be particularly brutal. So it must involve Special Victims. See?” Larkin asked. “There was no fit. I am perfectly capable of handling a myriad of situations while making competent deductions and rational decisions.”

“I never said—”

“Please get out.”

“Larkin—”