“What’s the matter?” I said nastily. “Glenn kick you out, too?”

“No.” Edden shifted the car into reverse. “I need to talk to you.”

“Sure,” I said, for lack of anything better. A frustrated sigh slipped from me, catching as my gaze fell upon Quen. He stood unmoving in the shade of the old oak. There was no expression on his face. He must have heard my entire conversation with Glenn concerning Trent. A chill went through me, and I wondered if I had just put myself on Quen’s “special people” list.

Green eyes fixed to me with a shocking intensity, Quen reached up to a low branch and swung himself up with the ease of picking a flower, disappearing into the old oak as if he had never existed.

Twenty-Two

Edden swung the car into the church’s tiny weed-choked parking lot. He hadn’t said much on the way back, his white knuckles and red neck telling me what he thought of the free-flow stream of consciousness that I had been spewing forth ever since he confessed the reason why he was playing chauffeur for me.

Shortly after finding the body, word had come over the radio that I was to be “removed from the FIB payroll.” Seems it got out that a witch was helping them and the I.S. called foul. I might have been able to swing it if Glenn had cared to explain that I was merely a consultant, but he hadn’t said a word, apparently still sulking over me contaminating his precious crime scene. That there wouldn’t even be a crime scene if it hadn’t been for me didn’t seem to mean anything.

Slamming the car into park, Edden stared out the front window and waited for me to get out. I had to give him credit. It’s not easy to sit and listen while someone compares your son to squid suckers and bat guano in the same breath.

Shoulders slumping, I didn’t move. If I got out, it would mean it was over, and I didn’t want it to be. Besides, keeping up a tirade for twenty minutes is tiring, and I probably owed him an apology if nothing else. My arm hung out the car’s open window, and I could hear a piano playing some elaborate complicated thing that composers made up to show off their dexterity rather than any artistic expression. I took a breath. “If I could just talk to Trent—”

“No.”

“Can I at least listen to the tape of his interview?”

“No.”

I rubbed my temples, an escaped curl tickling my cheek. “How does anyone expect me to do my job if they won’t let me do it?”

“It’s not your job anymore,” Edden said. The hint of anger pulled my head up. I followed his gaze to the pixy children sliding down the steeple on the tiny squares of wax paper I had cut for them yesterday. Neck stiff, Edden shifted in his seat to take his wallet from a back pocket. Flipping it open, he handed me some bills. “I was told to pay you in cash. Don’t claim it on your taxes,” he said flatly.