Larkin asked the uniformed cop, who was still keeping watch, where Gary Reynold was being kept, and the officer said his partner had reported that Reynold was out of surgery and she was on guard in room 512. Larkin took a final look through the window, watched Doyle’s progress on the characteristics stage—shaping the face and hair style, defining the linework, turning an unremarkable mess of shapes into a piece of art—and headed for the bank of elevators. Upon reaching the fifth floor, Larkin made a second phone call, this one to MTA Station Manager, Tanisha Crowley.

“Detective Larkin,” she said, her voice rich and resonating like the Mother of Blues, Ma Rainey. “How can I help you?”

“My apologies, Ms. Crowley. I wish I had been able to inform you earlier that we will be unable to meet this afternoon.”

“I know that.”

“You do?” Larkin countered, a rise in his pitch.

“Your partner called me. Almost two hours ago. He said there was an incident and you were delayed at the hospital. I hope it’s nothing pertaining to you, specifically?”

Larkin automatically put a hand to his chest, feeling the bandages under his dress shirt. He stopped walking, closed his eyes, clung to the vestiges of the all-but-exhausted Xanax high.

—Noah slid a silver band over Larkin’s finger, the air heavy with the perfume of summer flowers, sun dancing across the water—

Larkin shook his head and pressed his thumb against his left eye until it hurt.

—Noah slid a silver band over Larkin’s finger, the venue of St. Jude’s Church an oppressing and unhappy concession to Larkin’s frosty in-laws, and even his willingness to marry in a religious setting, when he himself was not a religious man, had done nothing to garner their respect—

“No, nothing pertaining to me,” Larkin answered.

“Your partner suggested tomorrow. I’m free after twelve.”

“Yes, that works. How is three o’clock.”

“Perfect. I’ll see you then.”

“Goodbye, Ms. Crowley.” Larkin ended the call, opened his calendar, and amended the date and time of his MTA appointment.

Larkin found room 512, knocked, and entered without waiting for a response. The room was smaller than Megan’s, but private, with the same color palette and antiseptic perfume. A uniformed female cop was seated on the farther side of the bed, resting her head against her fist and scrolling on her phone. She glanced up, likely expecting a nurse or doctor, but when Larkin flashed his badge from where he stood in the doorway, she promptly tucked her phone out of view. Larkin studied Gary Reynold—handcuffed to the bed railing and looking sufficiently doped from anesthesia and pain medication.

“Give us a moment,” Larkin stated.

“Yes, sir.” The officer rose, moved around the foot of the bed, and slipped past Larkin into the hall.