Dinner and magical supplies were paid for by Joey, who turned out to have a fat wallet. I left the credit cards and his fake FBI identification in the glove box. The cash was ours. I didn’t risk going inside the McDonald’s to order. We went through the drive-through and ate behind the security of tinted windows in the parking lot. Stonecrow looked extremely disinterested in my burgers, but she seemed okay with her chicken wrap, and she guzzled her soda in about five seconds flat. “So what’s your story?” I asked when I was halfway through my meal, gesturing at her. “What does the OPA want you for?” “They don’t tell you that in your files?” “Your file says that you’ve had three families complain that you’re a scam artist. But every story’s got two sides, right?” “Three complaints.” She snorted. “The dead don’t lie, Cèsar. That’s why people complain. They don’t like what the dead have to say to them. I haven’t done anything wrong.” Stonecrow wiped her fingers with one of the paper napkins.
