Glenn shot a guilty look at his dad. “I’ll pay you for it,” he begged. “Anything you want. Just don’t tell my dad. Oh God, Rachel. It would kill him.”

For a moment I could only stare. He had taken our ketchup. Right off our table. “I want your handcuffs,” I said suddenly. “I can’t find anything real without fake purple fur glued to it.”

His panicked look eased and he shifted back. “Monday.”

“Soon enough for me.” My words were calm, but inside I was singing. I was going to get my cuffs back! It was going to be a good day.

He darted a guilty look toward his dad. “Will you—get me a bottle of spicy?”

My eyes jerked to his.

“Maybe some barbecue sauce?”

I closed my mouth before a bug flew into it. “Sure.” I did not believe this. I was pimping ketchup to the son of the FIB’s captain.

I looked up to see a park official wearing a red polyester vest loping up the stairs toward us, scanning the faces. A smile curved over me as he met my eyes. He worked his way down the relatively empty aisle in front of us as I wrapped up what was left of my hot dog and set it on Nick’s seat, then dropped the baseball into my bag out of sight. It had been fun while it lasted. I wasn’t going to interfere with the game, but they didn’t know that.

Jenks flitted from Captain Edden to me. He was wearing all red and white in honor of the team, the brightness hurting my eyes. “Oooooh,” he mocked. “You’re in trouble now.” Edden gave me one last warning look before putting his attention on the field, clearly trying to divorce himself from me lest they kick him out, too.

“Ms. Rachel Morgan?” the young man in the red vest questioned as he reached us.

I stood with my bag. “Yes.”

“I’m Matt Ingle. Park ley line security? Could you come with me, please?”

Glenn got to his feet, standing with his feet spread wide and his hands on his hips. “Is there a problem?” he asked, turning the angry-young-black-man mien on high. I was too thrown by him liking ketchup to get angry at him wanting to protect me.

Matt shook his head, not cowed at all. “No sir. The Howlers’ owner heard about Ms. Morgan’s efforts to retrieve their mascot and would like to speak with her.”

“I’d be happy to talk to her,” I said as Jenks chortled, his wings turning a bright red. Despite Captain Edden keeping my name out of the paper, the entirety of Cincinnati and the Hollows knew who had solved the witch hunter murders, made the tag, and summoned the demon into the courtroom. My phone was ringing off the hook with requests for help. Overnight, I had gone from struggling entrepreneur to bad-ass runner. What did I have to fear from the owner of the Howlers?

“I’m coming with you,” Glenn said.