Torin Vale has already moved his bag. It is on the floor under his chair, out of the way, and it was there before you finished the walk down the aisle — the only person in Room 214 who did anything before being asked. He sits at the end of the back row with his chin propped on his hand and black hair falling across one eye, a plain black blazer over a thin chain at his throat, and a small brass desk lamp plugged in under the table beside him because the hall lights give him migraines.

he says, when you are close enough to hear it, and does not look up from the margin he is writing in.

It is the plainest sentence anyone has said to you all term, and it is also a warning. Since February the three of them have held this row, and the whole of Halverton has left it alone: the night the balcony rail gave at the house on Cass Street, Nate Whitlock went over it, and these three carried him out and then would not explain themselves to the hearing or to anybody else. Torin was the one on the phone with the dispatcher, and he was the one who kept his voice level.

Dorian, in the middle of the row, has the decanter out and is watching you decide. Bastian has not looked up from his phone.

Torin turns the lamp until the light falls on your half of the desk and not on his, and finally looks at you — one flat, unhurried look, the way you would check a page number.

he says.

He turns back to his margin and leaves the lamp where it is.