My hackles rose at how he had said it, as if turning into a rat or mink was morally wrong. I put a hand on my hip, the tray of drinks tilting dangerously close to spilling ice and soda pop. Obviously his dad had told him more of the story than Glenn had let on. “You’re late.”

“I stopped to get us all lunch,” he said stiffly. “Mind if I come in?”

I fell back, and he crossed the threshold. He hooked the door with his foot, closing it with a tug behind him. The smell of fries became overpowering in the sudden dusk in the foyer. “That’s a nice little outfit,” he said. “How long did it take you to paint it on?”

Affronted, I looked down at my leather pants and the red silk blouse tucked into them. Wearing leather before sunset had worried me until Ivy convinced me that the high quality of the leather I bought elevated the look from “white witch trash” to “wealthy witch class.” She ought to know, but I was still sensitive to it. “This is what I wear to work,” I snapped. “It saves on skin grafts if I have to run and end up sliding on pavement. Got a problem with it?”

Keeping his comments to a noncommittal grunt, he followed me to the kitchen. Ivy looked up from her map, silently taking in the burger bags and drinks. “Well,” she drawled. “I see you survived the pizza. I could still have Piscary bite you if you want.”

My mood lifted at Glenn’s suddenly closed expression. He made an ugly noise deep in his throat, and I went to put the frozen waffles away, seeing that the toaster hadn’t been plugged in. “You scarfed down that pizza fast enough last night,” I said. “Admit it. You li-i-i-i-iked it.”

“I ate it to stay alive.” Motions sharp, he stood at the table and pulled the bags to him. Seeing a tall black man in an expensive suit and shoulder holster unpacking paper-wrapped food made an odd picture. “I went home and prayed to the porcelain god for two hours straight,” he added, and Ivy and I exchanged amused looks.

Pushing her work aside, Ivy took the burger that was the most unsquished and the fullest envelope of fries. I slouched into a chair beside Glenn. He moved to the end of the table, not even trying to make it look casual. “Thanks for breakfast,” I said, eating a fry before unwrapping my burger with a rustle of paper.

He hesitated, his death grip on his FIB officer persona loosening as he undid the lowest button to his jacket and sat. “The FIB is paying for it. Actually, this is my breakfast, too. I didn’t get home until the sun was almost up. You put in a long day.”