CHAPTER TWENTY
Larkin held an umbrella in one hand while running his other along the cast-iron rail. He raised his hand and watched the collected water pool to his fingertips and hang suspended like little stars that weren’t quite ready to fall.
He hadn’t, of course, but suicide ideation was a constant in his intrusive thoughts, and it’d have been so easy .
So easy to climb over, to fall, to take a great big breath of brackish water, and sink into the dark hole he’d been digging for so long.
Instead, he’d walked home, filled the tub, submerged himself, and screamed until he came up choking and coughing and gasping for air, and he never told Noah he’d wanted to die that afternoon.
The drop of rain wobbled on the tip of Larkin’s finger.
He made a fist, catching the raindrop before it could fall.
“Everett?”
Larkin turned. Noah was crossing the path toward him, skirting a dip where a puddle had formed.
Lingering near the steps that led up to the promenade was a woman their age, her tightly braided hair covered by a gray hoodie.
She held a pink umbrella overhead and wore black shorts that showed off her shapely brown legs and thighs.
Larkin recognized Steph Coleman as one of Noah’s coworkers.
She taught first grade as well, and her classroom was across the hall from Noah’s. They’d been close friends for years.
She waved politely.
Larkin raised a hand back in response.
“Thanks for coming uptown,” Noah said. He came up just short of breaching Larkin’s personal bubble meant for one’s most intimate circle.
Larkin looked Noah over. He wore linen pants in what Larkin would call wisteria , and a white button-down with a little flower pattern in an almost, but not quite matching, purple.
Noah’s face looked better, but there was still a greenish bruise under one eye, and his right wrist had a bit of a friction burn from the duct tape. “How’re you,” Larkin asked.
Noah shrugged, nodded, but his eyes welled with sudden tears and his mouth twisted up as he fought back the urge to cry.
“I’m okay,” he managed to get out. “I, um… I’m still pretty scared.
If I think about it, even a little—” He stopped and wiped his eyes.
“You look good,” he said, trying for an air of lightness that came across as horribly forced.
“I feel like a sidewalk shed fell on me,” Larkin said, deadpan.
And just like that, Noah was crying and laughing and Larkin guided him down into a rigid embrace.
Noah lowered his umbrella to one side before wrapping his arm a little too tightly around Larkin’s neck, yanking him even closer.
Larkin grunted in discomfort as his bruised body was jostled, but he didn’t want Noah to be more afraid than he already was, so he sucked in a breath and said nothing about the pain.
When the bomb had detonated, the entire fourth floor exploded—glass and brick and splinters of wood three feet long rained down, crashing into the overhead scaffolding put into place to protect against that very sort of debris—but as the domino effect caused each floor to begin collapsing, the temporary structure gave way, and Larkin had gotten buried underneath as he’d been climbing out after Doyle and Noah.
He didn’t remember the immediate seconds that followed, after a plywood wall slammed into him from behind and trapped him—saving him from being crushed by the falling wreckage—but he recalled his hearing coming and going among the deafening tinnitus, the roar of fire, the breakage of manmade structures, the howl of sirens, and Doyle calling his name, his voice closer with every anguished scream, and then the darkness had given way to light and Doyle was dragging Larkin to his feet, hauling him to safety.
Noah let go of Larkin. He raised his umbrella, fixed a bit of Larkin’s hair that’d fallen from his side part, then asked, “Why’d they have to kill that journalist?”
Larkin hesitated. There was so much he couldn’t say, but to leave Noah scrambling in the dark was a cruelty beyond comprehension. So he said, cautiously, “I believe Noonan and Murray were being blackmailed.”
“By who?”
“I can’t tell you that, not without further endangering you.”
“What the hell, Everett?”
Larkin looked down. He was in street clothes, and his bright pink and orange sneakers were wet.
He wondered how long he’d been standing in a puddle.
Larkin took a step to the side and said, “Joe Sinclair was caught in the crossfire. He was busy following my cases, trying to land an interview, and at the same time, those two were being coerced into—they saw Joe following me, following you, and I believe they thought he was who was blackmailing them. They killed him thinking they were now off scot-free, but they weren’t.
His murder only escalated the situation. ”
“And they were forced to kidnap me,” Noah whispered.
“Yes.”
“The police haven’t found them yet, have they?”
“No.” But with confidence, Larkin added, “We will.”
Rain thrummed over their umbrellas in a low, steady beat.
“This sounds so stupid to say out loud,” Noah began, “but… thank you.”
“For what.”
He laughed again and shook his head. “For answering the phone. For saving my life.”
“Oh.” Larkin considered the correct response, but what was polite, what was right , when someone thanked you for that? He said, “You’re welcome.”
Noah looked out at the water, at the lighthouse on Roosevelt Island.
“When everything—and you were—I couldn’t move.
I saw that wall fall on you and I couldn’t…
but Ira did. He told me I was okay and he wouldn’t leave me alone, but he had to go back for you, and you know how they say mothers become superhuman and lift a car to save a child?
” Noah turned back to Larkin and their umbrellas bumped. “It was like that—watching him.”
Larkin’s heart beat so hard in his chest, it physically hurt.
“He loves you, right?”
Larkin nodded.
“And you’re happy?”
Again, Larkin nodded.
“Happier than when we were together?”
“Noah.”
“I want you to be honest.”
Larkin took a breath. “Yes.”
Noah bit his lower lip as his chin quivered, but he only whispered, “Okay.”
“Are you staying with Steph.”
Noah wiped his face once more. He cleared his throat. “Yeah. She broke up with Michael, actually.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“No, you’re not. You never liked him.”
“No, I didn’t.”
Noah cracked a smile. “He moved out. We’re both up the creek without a second income to pay rent, so she asked me to be her roommate.”
“I think that’ll be good,” Larkin agreed.
Noah looked in Steph’s direction, and then he said abruptly, “I’m gonna go.”
Larkin followed Noah’s gaze. Steph was still waiting, but now so was Doyle—a few feet away, umbrella in one hand, a cup of coffee in the other. “All right.”
“I’ll see you again, won’t I? I mean, we have to sign the papers.”
“We’ll talk,” Larkin agreed. “Get home safe.” And he watched as Noah slowly made his way back toward Steph, and the two disappeared down the curving stairs.
Larkin turned to the railing one more time.
He touched the wet surface.
But his purpose was to love, and love again.
Over and over.
Forevermore .
Larkin took a breath, and walked away. He fell into step with Doyle as they, too, started down the winding set of stairs and made their way along the green line of trees at the park entrance.
Doyle spoke first. “Is he okay?”
“In some ways.”
“Are you?”
Larkin answered, “I have closure.”
The Audi was parked across the street, on the corner of Eighty-Sixth and East End. Even from where they stood at the crosswalk, Larkin could see a damn parking ticket stuck under the windshield wiper.
“Let’s go home,” Doyle stated. “Climb into bed and make love until lunchtime. We can order delivery and then make more love until we either pass out or become severely dehydrated.”
Larkin laughed under his breath. “I’d like that.”
They reached the car and Larkin grabbed the ticket, collapsed his umbrella, and quickly got in behind the wheel. He dumped the umbrella in the back and started to crumple the ticket to throw too, but stopped.
Because parking tickets were orange.
And this was plain white.
Doyle climbed into the passenger seat and shut the door. “What do you think,” he began, while putting a hand to the Mets cap on his head. “Do I wear the hat while—what is it?”
Larkin peeled open the wet, greeting-card-sized envelope. Inside was a folded sheet of white paper, cutout letters so familiar, they made his heart drop to the pit of his stomach.
CLOSER AND CLOSER, LARKIN
The typography of the first letters in each word was reminiscent of the vintage signage that once papered the New York docks, now lost to time.
TO A BAD DEATH
Was it a threat or a warning?
GO NOW TO “THAT COMPANY OF LITTLE ANGELS”
In the crease was what appeared to be a torn portion of a sticker with the letters R E C and half of a skull.
COME FIND ME