“No.” Larkin raised one fine eyebrow. “Do you?”

Doyle shook his head. “No. She sincerely loved Andrew. Maybe was even a little in love with him. But her sense of being… unmoored, I guess, that’s real.” He smiled and added, “Just making sure we’re on the same page.”

Without warning, a gunshot fractured the air, like a pianist slamming their fists down on the keys and the crash ricocheting back and forth against the walls of an empty auditorium. Larkin and Doyle both reached for their holstered weapons and drew a SIG P226 and Glock 17, respectively.

“That was on this block,” Doyle said.

A second shot was fired, and somewhere overhead, glass broke. Children at the public school a few doors back began screaming.

“Recess,” Doyle said.

“Go,” Larkin snapped. “Tell the teachers to put the school in lockdown.”

Doyle left the Audi in a full run, as if the hounds of Hell were snapping at his ankles.

Larkin turned toward Jessica’s walk-up when the front door was thrown open and Ricky stepped outside, tucking something into the small of his back. The front of his sweatshirt was speckled with red. Larkin checked over his shoulder. Doyle stood at the gates of the school, badge raised, voice steady but loud and insistent as he ordered teachers to quickly escort the children inside. Swearing under his breath, Larkin turned to Ricky, raised his gun, and shouted, “NYPD, Ricky! Stop where you are!”

Ricky startled, looked across the street, and when he spotted Larkin, he broke into a run toward Avenue D.

“Ricky!” Larkin called again, immediately giving chase. He cut across the street, narrowly avoiding being hit by a car. Brakes screeched, a horn honked, the driver shouted out his open window, but Larkin didn’t stop. He jumped a sizable puddle at the curb, remnants of yesterday’s storm, and pounded down the sidewalk after Ricky. The super hadn’t bothered to hide his weapon underneath his sweatshirt, instead leaving the handgun on full display at the waistband of his jeans. Larkin stretched his legs, pushed himself to sprint harder, faster, and barreled his shoulder square into Ricky’s back.

Ricky’s arms flailed for purchase and he crashed to the ground like the giant falling from his beanstalk.

Larkin’s momentum kept him going past Ricky’s prone body, and he managed to barely remain standing and skid to a stop before he crashed headfirst into a trash can on the corner. Breathing hard, Larkin swiveled around, keeping his weapon drawn as he demanded, “Hands on the back of your head, right—so help me if you reach half an inch more for that gun, I will blow your fucking nuts off, Ricky. Hands on your head, right now.”

“You broke my nose,” Ricky wailed in his slow speech mannerism.

“Hands, Ricky!” Larkin snapped.

“Larkin!” Doyle was holstering his weapon as he came toward them. “You okay?”

“Yes. Take his gun.”