“Stay on the channel.”
I heard beams creaking above me.
Farrow was quiet coming down the stairs. He stopped in the doorway in a grey thermal under an unzipped hoodie. He had a sidearm at the small of his back.
“Coffee’s still fresh,” I said. “I made it at four-thirty.”
I sat at the table. Farrow poured a mug and sat opposite me. The earpiece in his right ear caught the under-counter light.
I drank. The coffee was hot enough to register, but not hot enough to burn.
“Eamon called?” Farrow asked.
“Yes, teams are in place for five a.m.”
“Sorensen first?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“Wiley up?” I asked.
“He’s been up. I heard him in the office at four-thirty, whispering with Samuel about whether he should put rosemary in his scones.”
I drank.
Outside, Monday’s snow was still on the front walk in patches the sun hadn’t reached, and a salt truck had gone past at three-fifty.
“Guess you’re not the type for the Pride parade,” Farrow said.
“That’s accurate.”
“Didn’t think so.”
“You are?” I asked
“I rode a float once in 2019. A friend of mine bartended in the South End and built a float out of a flatbed and about threehundred dollars of crepe paper. I was supposed to be helping him drive it. I ended up on top of it in shorts, a tank top, and a pair of sunglasses. I waved at a state senator I’d done a protection detail for the previous March. She waved back, but I don’t think she recognized me.”
“She didn’t recognize you?”
“I was wearing shades.”
“Would you do it again?” I asked.
“Sure. With the right company.” He nudged my hand.
A floorboard shifted upstairs. Two sets of feet on the landing. Wiley’s tread was lighter than Samuel’s.
They came in together. Samuel was in flannel, hair sleep-pushed to one side. Wiley was behind him in aGlobesweatshirt and his glasses.
Samuel immediately went to work in the kitchen. “Rosemary scones,” he said. “Savory this morning.”
“Are they at the doors yet?” Wiley asked.
“Five minutes,” I said.
Wiley took down two more mugs and poured for himself and Samuel. He sat at one end of the table.