Glenn straightened. “Get out of the car,” he said in a hard staccato, every syllable laced with authority.

“Don’t be stupid,” I said. “If he wanted me dead, he wouldn’t have had Quen bail me out.”

Jaw tight, Glenn opened the door. My car started chiming. “Get out. I’ll have it looked at and bring it over tomorrow.”

“Glenn…” I cajoled as I opened the envelope and my protests wavered. “Um,” I stammered. “He’s not trying to kill me, he’s paying me.”

Glenn leaned to see, and I tilted the envelope to him. A muttered oath came from him. “How much is that, you think?” he asked as I closed it and shoved it in my bag.

“I’m guessing eighteen thousand.” I tried to be cavalier, ruining it with my trembling fingers. “It was what he offered me to clear his name.” Brushing the hair from my eyes, I looked up. My breath caught. Visible in the rearview mirror was Trent’s Gray Ghost limo sitting in the fire lane. It hadn’t been there a moment ago. At least, I hadn’t seen it. Trent and Jonathan were standing beside it. Glenn saw where my attention was and turned.

“Oh,” he said, then a concerned wariness tightened the corners of his eyes. “Rachel, I’m going to go over to the ticket booth right over there…” He pointed. “…and talk to the lady about possibly buying a block of seats for the FIB’s company picnic next year.” He hesitated, shutting my door with a solid thump. His dark fingers stood out against the bright red paint. “You going to be all right?”

“Yeah.” I pulled my eyes from Trent. “Thanks, Glenn. If he kills me, tell your dad I loved the car.”

A trace of a smile crossed him, and he turned away.

My eyes were fixed to my rearview mirror as his steps grew faint. Behind me came a roar of fans as the game began. I watched Trent have an intent conversation with Jonathan. He left the angry tall man and ambled slowly to me. His hands were in his pockets and he looked good. Better than good, really, dressed in casual slacks, comfortable shoes, and a cable-knit sweater against the slight chill in the air. The collar of a silk shirt the color of midnight showed behind it, contrasting wonderfully with his tan. A tweed cap shaded his green eyes and kept his fine hair under control.

He came to a slow halt beside me, his eyes never leaving mine to touch upon the car even once. Feet scuffing, he half turned to look at Jonathan. It stuck in my craw that I had helped clear his name. He had murdered at least two people in less than six months—one of them Francis. And here I was, sitting in the dead witch’s car.