Conway had the room finished four days before anyone in this house asked him why.

The narrow back one on the second flight, unwanted since they moved downstairs. He carried a desk up it on Sunday, alone. The bolt went on the inside of the door — the inside, facing you. The key to the deadbolt sat on the ring in his jacket pocket, and he did not make a performance of handing it over.

The rest was on the fridge under a bottle-opener magnet: the week in his handwriting. Who was home which night, who left at six, which two hours on Thursday the house emptied out.

he said, from the armchair, before you had both feet on the rug. His cap had been on backwards since practice.

He had known you since you were a kid — Murdoch's little sister, which you hated and he enjoyed. Now you stood on the rug with your brother's name still lit on your phone, and the room went quiet the way rooms do when four men are deciding something.

Jarvis said, from the piano, without turning around.

Griffith took his glasses off, which meant he was about to be reasonable.

Then he looked at you.

Conway laughed before he decided it was allowed.

He spun his cap once on one finger, deliberately.

Parrish said from the sofa, and the room shut up.

Conway put a hand up. Not a wave. A statement.

Griffith asked.

He dropped his hand.

Then he shut up: Parrish had his mouth open, and Conway had learned to let the man with the plan have the room.