Page 77 of A Witchy Spell Ride

“What am I killing,” he said.

“Vent drop,” Cross said, swiveling the monitor. “Petal from the duct. Banks’s alibi is the bathroom.”

Ghost studied the frames with a stillness I’d started to recognize as a kind of rage he used like a scalpel. “We check the grate,” he said. “We check the crawl.” His eyes cut to me. “You, okay?”

“Yes.” I lifted my chin. “I want to talk to him.”

“Banks?” he asked, and his tone said why.

“Because if it’s him, I’ll see it,” I said. “If it’s not, I’ll still see something.”

He held my gaze. Decided. “I’m with you.”

“Of course you are,” I said, and I didn’t mean to let the warmth in my chest show, but it never asked permission anyway.

We found Banks in the garage pretending to inventory lug nuts. Bones leaned on a worktable nearby with his crowbar like a conversation piece. The air tasted like rubber and old adrenaline.

“Prospect,” Ghost said.

Banks straightened, the kind of quick that tries to look casual and lands on guilty. “Yeah?”

I stepped forward, letting Ghost be the wall at my back. “Do you remember what I told you the first time you stared too long at the shop door?” I asked.

Banks blinked. “I—”

“I told you not to insult me,” I said pleasantly. “You’re about to try.”

His mouth worked. “I didn’t do anything.”

“You were in the bathroom,” Ghost said.

Banks seized the alibi like a rope. “Yeah. Yeah. Stomach.”

“Convenient,” Bones murmured, picking dirt from under a nail with the tip of his crowbar like a sermon.

I tilted my head. “Did you notice anything weird with the vents this morning? Any sounds? Drafts? Loose screws?”

He shook his head too fast. “No.”

“Scratch your forearm.”

“What?” He frowned, confused.

“Scratch your forearm,” I repeated, lazy. “Top right. The itch you can’t place.”

He rubbed automatically and flinched. I smiled without heat. “Thanks.”

Ghost’s brow lifted, a silent question. I answered without looking at him. “I wrote a sigil to make liars itch,” I said. “Cross asked what it does.”

Bones barked a delighted laugh. “Gremlin witch.”

Banks flushed. “You can’t— I didn’t—”

“No,” I said softly. “You didn’t. Because if you had, this conversation would be happening in a different room.”

Relief flashed across his face so bright and so foolish my palm itched on instinct. He wasn’t our guy. He was something else, a problem for another day. He still looked too long at things thatdidn’t belong to him, but his fear wasn’t sharp enough to be the kind I needed to hunt.

“Get back to your sweep,” Ghost said, and Banks went without a backward glance, which told me he’d learned at least one thing today.