Page 103 of Hudson River Homicides
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.
On August 2, 2019, he’d considered jumping from this spot.
He hadn’t, of course, but suicide ideation was a constant in his intrusive thoughts, and it’d have beenso 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.
But on March 30, 2020, six months into a habit growing worse by the day and hoping the universe would just pull the goddamn trigger on him because he didn’t have the courage to do it himself, Larkin met Ira Doyle.And for the first time in eighteen years, Larkin had wanted to be alive.
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 callwisteria, 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.”
