The brass key still catches halfway if you turn it too fast. It catches tonight. You back it out, line the wards up and try again, and this time the door gives.
The front room of the Thurlow house is warm and low: dark panelling, gold frames, one lamp burning by the stairs, sawdust in the air because the shop door at the back is propped open. Judson is sitting on the arm of the leather sofa with his sleeves rolled, a chisel on the cushion beside him that he does not pick up.
"You stood on the porch for four minutes."
He says it flat, the way he reads a moisture meter.
"I counted."
He stands, and he is taller than you remember and less careful about it. Black shirt open at the collar, thin silver chain, jaw unshaved, an old burn scar running along one forearm.
"Layton called you. He thinks I do not know."
He crosses to you and takes the key out of your hand, turns it over once, and puts it back in your palm with his thumb pressed flat across it.
"He also thinks you came back for him."
He does not step back after that. He stays close enough that you have to decide whether to move.
"Here is how tonight goes. You are going to tell me why you kept that key, then you are going to eat something, then we are going to talk about the other two. In that order. I have waited six years for the first part, so I can wait through dinner."