He set the glass down and leaned forward. “You want me to call him?”

“See, I talked to Trent today,” I said quickly, so he couldn’t interrupt, “and we figure that the demon that attacked us last spring is the same one that’s doing the murders—that I was supposed to be the first witch hunter victim, but because I turned Trent’s job offer down, it let me go. If I can find out who sent it to kill us, then we have the murderer.”

Lips parted, Nick stared at me. I could almost see his thoughts fall in place: Trent was innocent and I was working for him to find the real murderer and clear his name of suspicion. Uncomfortable, I pushed the fork around on the plate. “How much is he giving you?” Nick finally asked, his voice giving me no clue to his thoughts.

“Two thousand up front,” I said, feeling it light in my pocket, since I had yet to go home. “Eighteen more when I tell him who the witch hunter is.” Hey. I’d made my rent. Whoop-de-do.

“Twenty thousand dollars?” he said, his brown eyes large in the fluorescent light. “He’s giving you twenty thousand dollars for a name? You don’t have to bring him in or anything?”

I nodded, wondering if Nick thought I was selling out. I felt like I was.

Nick held himself still for three heartbeats, then rose, his chair scraping the worn linoleum. “Let’s find out how much that costs,” he said, halfway out of the room.

I was left blinking at his wire and plastic chair. My heart thumped. “Nick?” I stood, taking a moment to move our plates to the sink. “Doesn’t it bother you I’m working for Trent? It bothers me.”

“Did he kill those witches?” came his voice from the hallway to his room, and I followed it through the living room to find him moving everything out of his linen closet and stacking it on his bed with a methodical quickness.

“No. I don’t think so.” God help me if I misread his tells.

He handed me a stack of brand new, lusciously green towels. “So what’s the problem?”

“The man is a biodrug lord and runs Brimstone,” I said, juggling the towels to take the oversize gardener boots he handed me. I recognized them as the ones from my belfry, and I wondered why he was keeping them. “Trent is trying to take over Cincinnati’s underworld, and I’m working for him. That’s what’s the matter.”

Nick grabbed his spare sheets and edged past me to drop them on his bed. “You wouldn’t be helping him unless you believed he didn’t do it,” he said as he returned. “And for twenty thousand dollars? Twenty thousand dollars buys a lot of therapy if you’re wrong.”

I grimaced, not liking Nick’s “money makes everything right” philosophy. I suppose growing up watching your mother struggle for every dollar might have a lot to do with it, but I sometimes questioned Nick’s priorities. But I had to find out just to save my own skin, and I’d be damned if I cleared Trent of suspicion for free.