“Whoa!” Edden said softly. “Someone arrest him and read him his rights.”

Francis’s mouth opened and closed in alarm as Briston pulled her cuffs from her hip and snapped them around his wrists. I reached into my sling and awkwardly unhooked my charm bracelet. I tossed it to land next to her—just in case Francis had something nasty in his rolled-up sleeves—and at Edden’s nod, she laced it on Francis’s wrist as well.

The soft and certain pattern of the Miranda flowed out in a reassuring cadence. Francis’s eyes were wide and fixed to the vial. I don’t think he even heard the man at his elbow.

“Rachel!” he cried as he found his voice. “Don’t let him kill me. He’s going to kill me. I gave you Kalamack. I want a deal. I want protection! That’s the way it works, right?”

My eyes met Edden’s and I wiped my hand free of the last of the tomato on a scratchy napkin. “Do we have to listen to this right now?”

A wicked, not so nice smile came over Edden. “Briston, get this bucket of crap into the van. Put his confession on tape and paper. And read him his rights again. No mistakes.”

Francis stood, his chair scraping the dirty tile. His narrow face was drawn and his hair had fallen into his eyes. “Rachel, tell them Kalamack is going to kill me!”

I looked at Edden, my lips pressed tight. “He’s right.”

At my words, Francis whimpered. His dark eyes looked haunted, as if unsure whether he should be happy or upset that someone was taking his worries seriously.

“Get him an ACG blanket,” Edden said in a bothered tone. “Keep him secure.”

My shoulders eased. If they got Francis tucked out of sight quick enough, he’d be safe.

Briston’s gaze flicked to the boxes. “And the—uh—tomatoes, Captain?”

His grin widened as he leaned over the table, careful to keep his arms out of the splattered mess. “Let’s leave that for the evidence crew.”

Clearly relieved, Briston gestured for Clayton. “Rachel!” Francis babbled as they pulled him to the door. “You’re going to help me, right? I’ll tell them everything!”

All four of the FIB officers roughly escorted him out, Briston’s heels clicking smartly. The door snicked shut, and I closed my eyes at the blessed silence. “What a night,” I whispered.

Edden’s chuckle pulled my eyes open. “I owe you, Morgan,” he said, three paper napkins between his fingers and the tomato-slimed white vial. “After seeing you with those two witches, I don’t know why Denon was so set on bringing you down. You’re a hell of a runner.”

“Thanks,” I whispered around a long sigh, stifling a shudder as my thoughts returned to trying to fight two ley line witches at once. It had been close. If Edden hadn’t jarred the concentration of that third witch to break the net, I would have been dead. “Thanks for getting my back, I mean,” I said softly.

The absence of the FIB officers had pulled Nick from the corner, and he handed me a foam cup of something that might have once been coffee. He carefully lowered himself into the chair beside me, his gaze flicking between the three boxes and the tomato-smeared table. It seemed seeing Edden touch one had given him a measure of courage. I flashed him a tired smile and cupped my good hand about the coffee, taking advantage of its warmth.