Page 81 of A Witchy Spell Ride
“I did,” I said, and went back to work because I was doing a lot of remembering lately and most of it had her name on it.
Cross called five minutes later. He didn’t bother with hello. “Vent drop,” he said. “He fed the petal through the duct. I’ve got a partial print on the inner lip and oil that matches the earlier trace.”
“I’ll check the crawl,” I said.
“Bones already volunteered his worm pants,” Cross replied, dry.
“Good,” I said. “He loves spelunking.”
I hung up and took a breath that tasted like oil and threat. The Quarter can scent your mood; it knows when you’re hunting.
On my way out of the garage, I caught sight of Selene through the open doors to the main room. Briar had her cornered with a coffee and a story; Selene was curled on the arm of Reaper’s old chair, smiling like she wasn’t performing, the kind of smile that happens when you forget to be afraid. Her hair was shorter now; it made her look like a blade.
Then Banks slid into my peripheral.
He leaned near the end of the hallway, talking to Ash, pretending to scroll his phone but his eyes kept drifting. To her.
I stepped into his line of sight without a word. The kid jerked like he’d been slapped by air.
“Everything alright, brother?” I asked, too low for anyone else to hear.
He swallowed. “Yeah. Just standing here.”
“Try standing somewhere else.”
“Ghost—”
I got close enough that the lesson wouldn’t need a review. “You forget who the fuck she is?”
Color drained out of his face.
“She’s Reaper’s sister,” I said. “Vex’s family. Mine.”
“I didn’t—”
“You didn’t touch her,” I said. “And that’s the only reason you’re still breathing.”
His jaw clenched. He nodded.
“Good,” I added, stepping back like I believed in mercy. “Go be useful somewhere far away from my eyesight.”
He left fast, head down, the walk of a man who knew he’d wandered too near a cliff. I watched him go and felt the itch between my shoulders that means I’ve got two problems instead of one.
Because Banks wasn’t just looking. He waswatching.Not with predator heat, not with danger like our mystery genius. With longing. The kind that grows in dark corners and eats good sense. That alone didn’t make him our stalker.
But it made him dangerous.
And dangerous men?
They always show their hand, eventually.
I just needed to be ready when he did.
The war room had a smell I liked: coffee, paper, Cross’s smug competence. He had the hallway footage paused on the frame where the vent louvers twitched, the petal floating down like a blood-red lie.
“Partial print,” he said, tapping a bagged swab. “And the oil traces play nice with our Elliot-Adam theory. He handled the petal too long because he likes props. Ego gets sweaty.”
“Crawl space?” I asked.
