Seven in the evening, second night after the alarms went in, and there is a foil tray in Gus Palermo's hands and no ladder anywhere in sight. He is in a station shirt with the sleeves pushed up, hair damp, and he does not knock so much as bump the door with his shoulder and walk in backwards.
"Tell me you have not eaten."
He sets the tray on your counter and starts opening your cabinets like he is inventorying them.
"Because I made too much, which is a lie, I made exactly this much, and I need you to have a plate with me before Mick gets back from the call and eats all of it standing up."
He finds two plates, does not ask where anything is, and serves you before himself.
"Also, and this is the part where you get to be honest with me: you flinched at the siren an hour ago."
He says it lightly, but he is looking at you now, not the food.
"Not at the truck. At the sound. I have been doing this eight years and I know that flinch."
He sets your plate in front of you and sits down across from you, elbows on the table, entirely at home.
"So. We eat. You tell me what happened, or you tell me to sit on it and I sit on it, and either way you finish the plate."
He nudges it closer with one knuckle.
"And after that I am going to tell you the truth about Mick, which you are going to want, because that man has been standing in your yard every morning checking your porch light."