The scene on East Sixth between Avenues C and D at 1:49 p.m. looked like a chaotic law enforcement block party. Black-and-whites with strobing lights were haphazardly parked along the sides of the road. One of two ambulances was pulling away with Jessica in critical condition, sirens screaming. Radios of uniformed officers crackled in the bus’s wake. Any minute, one of the fifty CSU detectives employed by the city would pull up and begin processing Jessica’s apartment.

Larkin sat on the bumper of the second ambulance. One of the paramedics was washing his hands of Jessica’s blood. A cabernet to a rosé to no one ever knowing he’d packed the gut shot of a dying woman with retro Rainbow Brite sheets. Larkin looked away from his hands. He studied Doyle, his exclusive-to-this-case partner, speaking with one of the responding detectives from Precinct 9. He was giving an official report as to their presence on the scene and the pursuit of Ricky when Larkin saw blood on his sweatshirt and had reason to believe an immediate connection to the gunfire. It was better that Doyle was taking the first pass. Larkin wasn’t feeling particularly amicable, and his report would undoubtably reflect that.

“Detective?”

Larkin blinked a few times and looked to the paramedic standing over him.

“I asked if you wanted to remove your ring for a moment—get the inside of it.”

“Oh.” He tugged the silver band free. Dried blood discolored his finger.

The paramedic wiped it clean, then did the same to the wedding band.

Doyle strode across the sidewalk, jumped a puddle, and joined Larkin. He sat on the bumper and snapped the hair tie around Larkin’s wrist.

The gesture translated so suddenly and so simply in Larkin’s brain that he almost started laughing in some sort of hysterical relief. Then he almost started crying, because, no, he wasn’t okay. Of course not. No one would be after what had just transpired. But that question—Are you okay?—rang so hollow for him because people never wanted to know.

But I do. And Doyle had found a way to communicate that.

Larkin nodded and said quietly, “Thanks.”

Doyle smiled. He leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “2D took PomPom.”

“Good.”

“It all seems pretty straightforward,” Doyle explained. “No signs of forced entry, so Ricky must have knocked after we stepped out. In the kitchen, he shot Jessica in the stomach. She stumbled to the bedroom, for her phone, most likely. He shot her again in the shoulder. That was a through and through—broke the window.”

“She’d always been the one who got away,” Larkin stated. “That’s what Ricky said.”

“He’s a few Fruit Loops short of a cereal bowl.”

Larkin glanced sideways.

“Not professional, I know. In my defense, he shot a woman.”

“Yes. Also yes.” Larkin stood. “But he’s known Jessica for how long. Why was it vital he scrub—”

“Rub.”