Wiley moved next. He went back toward the kitchen and touched my forearm as he passed.
“There’s bread. Samuel made three loaves. We’re not running out.”
Finally, it was only Farrow and me. “He’s going to be alright,” he said, low.
He turned, and I did the same. He followed me back into the kitchen.
Samuel handed me a mug of tea as I settled into a chair. “English breakfast. Milk’s in the fridge if you want it. There’s bread on the cutting board. Eat some.”
“I will.”
“Wiley and I are going upstairs to lie down for a while. He hasn’t slept properly in a week. Cabot’s in the front parlor on his laptop. Vega’s at the door. Reed’s asleep. The house is quiet.”
Samuel picked up a mug and a small plate with two slices of bread on it and went down the hall toward the stairs. I heard his weight on the treads and then the bedroom door close behind him.
Farrow sat across from me, coat draped over the back of the chair beside him, showing the burnt-orange lining. He’d taken his sidearm off and laid it on the counter beside his phone.
“That’s a strange feeling,” he said.
“What?”
“Putting it down. It takes a while for the muscle to catch up to the change.”
“Stanley wants to know what we’re doing at Christmas,” I said. “He asked me on Wednesday, just before the wedding.”
“Christmas is over two weeks away.”
“I told him I didn’t know yet. He asked if I would tell him when I did.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I said I would.”
“Where do you want to go when we’re done?” Farrow asked.
“Home.”
Farrow smiled. “Your place or mine?”
“Yours or mine. As long as it’s home.”
“Yours has better light,” he said.
“I feel like I haven’t spent enough time there to know.”
“I have.”
“You’ve been keeping notes on my light?”
“I’ve been keeping notes on you. The light came with you.”
“Mine then,” I said. “Until you can’t stand the kitchen.”
“What’s wrong with the kitchen?”
“Nothing yet. You’ll see in a week.”
“Do you want to stay at Brattle through Sunday?” he asked. “Or leave sooner.”