Her lips parted and I swear I heard a small growl in her sigh. Athletes were notorious for being superstitious. She'd pay.

"It's not the money, Mrs. Sarong," I said, though at first it had been. "But if I let one pack treat me like a cur, then that's what I'll be. And I'm not a cur."

She brought her gaze up from the field. "Not a cur," she agreed. "You are a lone wolf." With a graceful motion, she motioned to a nearby Were, one that looked oddly familiar, in fact. He hastened forward with a leather-bound checkbook the size of a Bible, which took two hands to handle. "It's the lone wolf that is the most dangerous," she said as she wrote. "They also have extremely short life spans. Get yourself a pack, Ms. Morgan."

The rip of the check was loud. I wasn't sure if she was giving me advice or a threat. "Thank you, I have one," I said, not looking at the amount as I tucked it in my bag. The smooth shape of the baseball touched my knuckles and I pulled it out. I set it into her waiting hand. "I'll leave before the game starts," I said, knowing there was no way they would let me back in the stands. "How long am I banned for?"

"Life," she said, smiling like the devil herself. "I, too, am not a cur."

I smiled back, genuinely liking the older woman. Glenn drifted closer. I took the champagne he handed me and set it on the windowsill. "Good-bye, Mrs. Sarong."

She inclined her head as way of dismissal, the second flute of champagne Glenn had brought resting easy in her grip. Three young men lurked behind her, sulky and well-groomed. I was glad I didn't have her job, though it looked as if the perks were great.

Glenn's shoes sounded loud on the concrete as we made our way back to the front gate without the help of Matt and his golf cart.

"You'll tell everyone good-bye for me?" I asked, meaning Nick.

"Sure." His eyes were on the huge signs with their letters and arrows pointing to the exits. The sun was warm when we found it, and I relaxed as I went to stand at the bus stop. Glenn came to a halt beside me and handed me my hat. "About your fee—" he started.

"Glenn," I said as I put it on, "like I told your dad, don't worry about it. I'm grateful for them paying off my I.S. contract, and with the two thousand Trent gave me, I've enough to see me through until my arm heals."

"Would you shut up?" he said, digging in his pocket. "We worked something out."

I turned, my gaze dropping to the key in his hands and then rising to his eyes.

"We couldn't get approval to reimburse you for the canceled class, but there was this car in impound. The insurance agency salvaged the title, so we couldn't put it up for auction."

A car? Edden was going to give me a car?

Glenn's brown eyes were bright. "We got the clutch and the transmission repaired. There was something wrong with the electrical system, too, but the FIB garage guys fixed it, no charge. We would have gotten it to you sooner," he said, "but the DMV office didn't understand what I was trying to do so it took three trips down there to get it transferred to your name."

"You guys bought me a car?" I said, excitement bubbling up into my voice.

Glenn grinned and handed me a zebra-striped key on a purple rabbit's foot key chain. "The money the FIB put into it just about equals what we owed you. I'll drive you home. It's a stick, and I don't think you can handle shifting gears yet with your arm."

Heart suddenly pounding, I fell into step beside him, scanning the lot. "Which one?"

Glenn pointed, and the sound of my heels on the pavement faltered as I saw the red convertible, recognizing it. "That's Francis's car," I said, not sure what I was feeling.

"That's okay, isn't it?" Glenn asked, suddenly concerned. "It was going to be scrapped. You aren't superstitious, are you?"

"Um…" I stammered, drawn forward by the shiny red paint. I touched it, feeling the clean smoothness. The top was down, and I turned, smiling. Glenn's worried frown eased into relief. "Thank you," I whispered, not believing it was really mine. It was mine?

Steps light, I walked to the front, then the back. It had a new vanity plate: runnin'. It was perfect. "It's mine?" I said, heart racing.

"Go on, get in," Glenn said, his face transformed by his pleased enthusiasm.

"It's wonderful," I said, refusing to cry. No more expired bus passes. No more standing in the cold. No more disguise charms just so they would pick me up.

I opened the door. The leather seat was warm from the afternoon sun and as smooth as chocolate milk. The cheerful dinging of the door being opened was heaven. I put in the key, checked that it was in neutral, pushed in the clutch, and started it up. The thrum of the engine was freedom itself. I shut the door and beamed at Glenn. "Really?" I asked, voice cracking.

He nodded, beaming.

I was delighted. With my broken arm, I couldn't safely manage the gearshift, but I could try all the buttons. I turned on the radio, thinking it must be an omen when Madonna thundered out. I turned "Material Girl" down and opened the glove box just to see my name on the registration. A thick yellow business-size envelope slid out, and I picked it up off the floor.

"I didn't put that there," Glenn said, his voice carrying a new concern.

I brought it to my nose, my face going slack as I recognized the clean scent of pine. "It's from Trent."

Glenn straightened. "Get out of the car," he said in a hard staccato, every syllable laced with authority.

"Don't be stupid," I said. "If he wanted me dead, he wouldn't have had Quen bail me out."

Jaw tight, Glenn opened the door. My car started chiming. "Get out. I'll have it looked at and bring it over tomorrow."

"Glenn…" I cajoled as I opened the envelope and my protests wavered. "Um," I stammered. "He's not trying to kill me, he's paying me."

Glenn leaned to see, and I tilted the envelope to him. A muttered oath came from him. "How much is that, you think?" he asked as I closed it and shoved it in my bag.

"I'm guessing eighteen thousand." I tried to be cavalier, ruining it with my trembling fingers. "It was what he offered me to clear his name." Brushing the hair from my eyes, I looked up. My breath caught. Visible in the rearview mirror was Trent's Gray Ghost limo sitting in the fire lane. It hadn't been there a moment ago. At least, I hadn't seen it. Trent and Jonathan were standing beside it. Glenn saw where my attention was and turned.

"Oh," he said, then a concerned wariness tightened the corners of his eyes. "Rachel, I'm going to go over to the ticket booth right over there…" He pointed. "…and talk to the lady about possibly buying a block of seats for the FIB's company picnic next year." He hesitated, shutting my door with a solid thump. His dark fingers stood out against the bright red paint. "You going to be all right?"

"Yeah." I pulled my eyes from Trent. "Thanks, Glenn. If he kills me, tell your dad I loved the car."

A trace of a smile crossed him, and he turned away.

My eyes were fixed to my rearview mirror as his steps grew faint. Behind me came a roar of fans as the game began. I watched Trent have an intent conversation with Jonathan. He left the angry tall man and ambled slowly to me. His hands were in his pockets and he looked good. Better than good, really, dressed in casual slacks, comfortable shoes, and a cable-knit sweater against the slight chill in the air. The collar of a silk shirt the color of midnight showed behind it, contrasting wonderfully with his tan. A tweed cap shaded his green eyes and kept his fine hair under control.

He came to a slow halt beside me, his eyes never leaving mine to touch upon the car even once. Feet scuffing, he half turned to look at Jonathan. It stuck in my craw that I had helped clear his name. He had murdered at least two people in less than six months—one of them Francis. And here I was, sitting in the dead witch's car.