Bewildered enough to be swept up, Johnny allows himself to be drawn, caught between reluctance and indecision. At the unworded invitation he sits on only the very edge of the bed, hands gripping tightly at his knees (his fingers have healed now, now that he's free of the room, that's something at least).

"It was..." The words boil up in his throat, hard to keep down. He'd resisted so well not so long ago, the last time someone had demanded his story, but now it seems so difficult to resist, or difficult to conjure up a reason. He swallows. It's all fresh, if jumbled, in his mind.

"Lude called me," he murmurs. "My friend Lude. I wish he hadn't. God I wish he hadn't."

That's not enough of a beginning but he needs to pause anyway, steadying his breathing, it's okay, it's going to be okay. "His neighbor had died. A man called Zampanò. He wanted me to come take a look at what he'd found, because he knew..."

Miserably, he sighs, letting the rest out on a defeated breath: "He knew I'd be interested."