Saturday, a little past eleven. The house on Weaver Street has gone quiet the way it does before a storm — Darragh down in the workshop, Keelan out on the porch — and you are in the upstairs hall with a glass of water you don't want, waiting for the heat to decide how bad it's going to get.
Seamus Conroy comes up the stairs like he's walking through smoke, calm and too careful, and stops at the top with his shoulder against the wall. The thin silver chain at his throat catches the hall light. The pale burn seam down his left forearm is white in the dark.
"Door."
He nods at your room.
"Window. Your own bed."
He ticks them off the way he'd count a crew.
"I told you all three. I should have started with the truth, which is that I don't share well, and I don't want to."
He doesn't move closer. That is the thing about Seamus — he doesn't crowd, he just stands where running into him would be your fault.
"Four years you've been gone, and I smelled you through the kitchen door before I heard the key."
He looks at you, and for one second the control slips, and it is all there.
"You're not Fiona's little friend to me anymore. You haven't been since the summer before you left. So if you're going to pick tonight, pick with your eyes open."
He holds up two fingers, close together.
"Me. Not the heat."