“Yes. I return to active duty tomorrow,” Larkin said dryly. He gave the mesh trash can a second consideration before stating, “You had a bad day.”

Doyle wasn’t messy, per se. He was one of those people who dispersed belongings as he went—a suit coat shoved onto the ladder rung instead of being hung up in the closet, because the ladder was closer, for example—but he was mindful of actual trash and probably didn’t realize that the crumpled mess was atypical of his character and, therefore, credible evidence as to the limit his patience had been pushed that day. He corrected in that usual warm baritone, “A little tedious, is all.”

Moving toward Larkin, Doyle stopped to stand before him. Close. Always so close. Separated by a baby’s breath. But Doyle was acutely aware of the fact that Larkin shied away from, was even repulsed by, physicality from the wrong person or when he might not have been in a good headspace.

So they’d developed a workaround. Something unique to them. A nonverbal approach to checking in, to asking permission, because Larkin had been hurt for too long by meaningless platitudes and guilted too long into speaking a love language profoundly foreign to him.

“People don’t want to know. But I do.”

“On August 2, 2002, I was struck in the head with a baseball bat.”

Doyle reached down, his hands big and capable, and gave the black hair tie around Larkin’s left wrist a tug.

No, Larkin wasn’t okay. He was still raw, over an hour after walking out of the Fifty-Seventh Street station. Walking? Try running. He hadn’t even spoken to the MTA employee responsible for calling in John Doe. How ridiculous. How unprofessional. Larkin could lie. Say that after forty-eight days of medical leave, he was rusty, misread the scenario, had forgotten. Except that Larkin forgot to load the wash into the dryer. He forgot where he’d taken off his red derbies. He forgot the grocery list but didn’t notice until he was already at the store and nearly melted down in the dairy aisle. Larkin forgot the unscheduled events, the impromptu errands. He didn’t forget to interview witnesses, because that was routine, and routine was what kept him breathing.

It’d been the two associations while in the utility room.

One right after the other, like he’d been KO’d and then punched in the head a second time, just for good measure.