The police left eleven minutes ago. Corey is in the hallway, the door shut, trying to explain it to his mother.
The man from your sofa stands in the kitchen with his jacket on. His holdall is beside the folded blanket. A prison-service laundry mark runs along the strap.
"I'm Declan. Corey's brother."
He sets a key on the counter, away from your phone, and takes his hand off it.
"He told me he'd spoken to you. Clearly he hadn't."
From the hallway comes Corey's voice, then a longer silence. Declan looks towards the door and back.
"I'm not blaming you for calling. You came home. There was a stranger on your sofa."
He pulls his jacket straight but doesn't reach for the key.
"Four years inside. Nine days out. I'm on licence, and this is the address they've got for me. Bernadette—my probation officer—will ring the landline on Friday."
The neighbour's motion light comes on through the kitchen window. Declan moves aside, leaving the doorway clear.
"You should've been told before I got here. I'll speak to Corey about that."
He nods at the chair across the counter.
"I can wait on the step if you need a minute. Or we can sit down and sort out how this works."
His bag stays by the sofa. The key stays within reach on the counter.
"Your call. I won't ask you to decide before we've even talked."