Larkin cast Doyle a look upon his fourth or fifth pass. “Bosman needed to be brought down a peg. He’s a detective in the same way an honor student needs CliffsNotes in class.”

“Evie,” Doyle said, and there was a gentle sternness in his voice, in the stress on Larkin’s first name—well, sort of his first name.

Larkin stopped and stared at Doyle.

“Unless you want someone pointing out your own domestic troubles, apologize to him.”

Larkin didn’t respond as a cold sweat broke out under his arms. His jaw tightened. Throat muscles tensed. He felt struck by both the need to simultaneously fight and fly.

Doyle returned to scrolling on his phone.

Seven years. That was how long Larkin and Noah had known each other. And it had been good in the beginning. Like waking from a restless sleep and getting an overdose injection of serotonin and dopamine. The effect had been immediate and intense, and Larkin should have known to slow down, to be careful, because he was damaged goods and most people weren’t in the market for those bruised apples at the bottom of the produce display. But the love had felt so good. And Noah had said he understood. He’d listened, sympathized with Larkin when no one else had.

Until he hadn’t.

Larkin had warned Noah that he couldn’t change. It wasn’t a matter of enough therapy or a cocktail of medications—his brain had completely rewired itself after August 2, 2002, and who he was now… this was it. Larkin knew the way he spoke was frustrating, sometimes rude, and he did his best to maintain a moderated and subdued presence, albeit he still came off as intense when in public, but Noah had promised him he didn’t have to hide his… quirks at home.

He’d promised.

But now Noah was always angry, always offended, always lashing out, and Larkin was shrinking, collapsing back into that exhaustive blackness he’d been in the decade following the incident, hinging his ability to drag himself out of bed on doses of anxiety pills and sleeping aids and—Noah hadn’t known. Didn’t realize. Didn’t care.

Larkin thought of the Xanax downstairs in the Audi. He could excuse himself for a minute. Hell, if he ran, he could retrieve a dose and be back in forty-five—forty seconds. Just one. He’d still be focused enough to interrogate Ricky.

Doyle tugged lightly on the hair tie around Larkin’s wrist. He hadn’t looked up from his phone as he motioned Larkin to join him against the wall.

Just one, Larkin thought again, but he took a few steps and reluctantly stood beside Doyle. He scrubbed his face hard with both hands, and when he let out a breath, it was shaky.