Page 55 of Subway Slayings
“He’smyhusband,” Noah cried. “Notyours.”
“Noah—” Larkin tried.
“You ruined my marriage!” Noah said accusingly, pointing a finger at Doyle.
Larkin stepped in between the two. “We ruined our marriage,” he corrected, motioning between himself and Noah.
“Bullshit.”
“You told me over and over that you understood,” Larkin said. “But I think… a part of you… hoped all the weird shit I say and do wouldn’t apply to you—would changebecauseof you. And I think you’ve come to resent me and the fact that that isn’t true.”
“So now it’s my fault?”
“No. I didn’t say that,” Larkin snapped. He took a deep breath, rubbed his eyes, and said, “You’ve underestimated your limitations when in a relationship with someone who’s neurodivergent. I’m not blaming you for anything. I’m only trying to say that there’s a disconnect between what you’re capable of handling and what I’m capable of giving. It’s not fair to either of us, and I’ve tried to tell you this a dozen times over the last fifty days.It’s not fair.”
Noah’s eyes shone with unfallen tears. He swallowed, sniffed loudly, and countered, “I really appreciate how you make me out to be stupidandheartless, Everett. Thank you.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“And don’t think so highly of yourself,” Noah continued, “because what you’ve been giving for the last year? Zero. Fucking zero.”
“Great. I look forward to your list of grievances in court.”
“Why wait? I can start now. You refuse to visit my parents with me.”
“They don’t want me around, Noah. They don’t like me.”
“How could they? They haven’t seen their son-in-law since our wedding. You don’t listen when I talk to you.”
“Sometimes your conversations are overwhelming.”
“You hang up on me.”
“I’m a detective. I can’t keep taking personal—”
“You recently became a pill-popper.”
“For my panic attacks.” But Larkin’s voice was growing quieter, weaker, like he was giving up, with every counter to Noah’s attacks.
“You won’t have sex with me.”
“It’s the Xanax.”
“And—oh, that’s right—you cheated on me.” Noah smiled, but it was malicious, and pointed at Doyle. “With him. The guy you’re apparently now living with, even though you wouldn’t move in with me until we got engaged.”
“All right,” Doyle interrupted. He took Larkin by the elbow and gently steered him away while saying to Noah, “I think you need to take a breath—”
“Spare me the condescending attitude,” Noah spat.
“I can’t do this,” Larkin said, heading toward the bathroom.
Doyle said to Noah, “I think you should go.”
“I came to talk to my husband, not you.”
“Be that as it may, you’re in my home, and I’m telling you to leave. Evie, hang on—Noah, I’ll ask if he can give you a call—”
Larkin shut the bathroom door, twisted the lock, and opened the medicine cabinet. He pushed Noah’s and Doyle’s voices out of his mind until they were muted, distorted, like he was listening to underwater recordings. The Xanax was still gone, of course, and there was no convenient way to get downstairs and retrieve the pills hidden in the Audi. So Larkin grabbed the ZzzQuil bottle, unscrewed the top, tossed aside the measuring cap, and brought it to his lips. He swallowed a mouthful of the berry-flavored medication, but it burned his sinuses, his throat, and he started coughing. Larkin scrambled to set the bottle on the edge of the sink, but it tipped over, purple antihistamine sloshing down the drain. He turned on the water, leaned down, and drank before coughing some more. It was only after Larkin had caught his breath that he registered the pounding on the door.
