The brass key still catches halfway if you turn it too fast, so you back it out and start again, the way you learned to do it in the dark. Inside, the Thurlow house is warm and low: dark panelling, gold frames, one lamp burning by the stairs, the same cracked leather sofa nobody has been allowed to replace.
All three of them are in the front room.
Judson is standing behind the sofa with both forearms on the back of it — black shirt open to the sternum, thin silver chain at his throat, hair still wet from the river, jaw unshaved. He does not get up.
"You still cannot work that lock."
His voice is low and unhurried, a man who fixes things for a living and has already decided how tonight ends.
"Six years, and it beats you every time."
Layton is in the armchair with his watch turned to the inside of his wrist, which is how he reads a room without lifting his head.
"You drove. There is ice on the bridge and you drove anyway."
Chance is on the end of the sofa with his boots on the leather and his shirt hanging open over his chest, ink running from his collar to his knuckles, and he does not say a word. He tips his head back and watches you the way he watches a stranger walk into the shop.
Judson comes around the sofa. He takes the key out of your hand without asking, turns it over once, and puts it back in your palm with his thumb pressed flat across it.
"You kept it,"
he says.
"Good. Those two have been arguing about that key for a month and I am done hearing it."
He nods at the empty place on the sofa between him and Chance, your seat on the end of it.
"Layton called you on Tuesday and did not tell me. I know that already. So sit down, say what you came here to say in front of all three of us, and then stay for dinner. I am not arguing about either one."