I couldn't understand what Bill was getting out of hanging around with this guy. I suspected Bill's reverence for the written word had blinded him to Harp's inquisitive and intrusive habits. When Bill had grown up, books were fairly rare and precious. Or did Bill just need a friend so badly he was willing to make one of Harp Powell? I would have liked to check out Harp's neck for fang marks, but with his collar that was impossible. Dammit.

"That's the official story," Harp said, knocking back another swallow of water. "But I understand that you know more."

"Who might have told you that?" I looked at Bill. He gave a tiny shake of the head to indicate his innocence. I said, "If you think you will get another story, a different one, from me . . . you're absolutely wrong."

The former reporter backpedaled. "No, no, I just want some color to enhance my picture of her life. That's all. What it was like to actually be there that night, at that party, and to see Kym alive in her last minutes."

"It was disgusting," I said without thinking.

"Because your boyfriend, Eric Northman, drank blood from Kym Rowe?"

Duh! That was public record, too. But that didn't mean I enjoyed being reminded. "The party just wasn't my cup of tea," I said evenly. "I got there late, and I didn't like what I found when I walked in."

"Why not you, Ms. Stackhouse? That is, why didn't he drink from you?"

"That's really not any of your business, Mr. Powell."

He leaned across the coffee table, all confidential and intense. "Sookie, I'm trying to write the story of this sad girl's life. To do her justice, I'd like all the details I can gather."

"Mr. Powell - Harp - she's dead. She won't ever know what you write about her. She's beyond worrying about justice."

"You're saying it's the living who count, not the dead."

"In this instance, yes. That's what I'm saying."

"So there are secrets to know about her death," he said, righteously.

If I'd had the energy, I'd have thrown up my hands. "I don't know what you're trying to get me to say. She came to the party, Eric drank from her, she left the party, and the police tell me a woman whose name they won't release called them to confess she'd strangled Kym."

I took a second to check my memory. "She was wearing a green and pink dress, real bright, kind of low-cut, with spaghetti straps. And high-heeled sandals. I can't remember what color they were." No underwear, but I wasn't going to mention that.

"And did you talk to her?"

"No." I didn't think I'd addressed her directly.

"But this bad behavior, this blood drinking, was offensive to you. You didn't like Eric Northman drinking from Kym."

Screw trying to be polite. By now, Bill had put down his bottle and moved to the edge of the couch as if he were ready to rocket to his feet.

"I did very thorough interviews with the police. I don't want to talk about Kym Rowe again, ever."

"And it's true," he said, as if I hadn't spoken, "that though the cops say Kym's killer confessed over the phone, she's never been caught, and she may be dead somewhere just like Kym Rowe is? You hated Kym Rowe and she died, and you hated Arlene Fowler and she died. What about Jannalynn Hopper?"

Bill's eyes lit up from within like brown torches. He hauled Harp up by his collar and marched him out of the house in a way that would have been pretty funny if I hadn't been so angry and so scared.

"I hope this is the end of Bill's fascination with writers," I said out loud. I would have loved to go to bed, but I figured Bill would be back. Sure enough, he knocked on the back door in ten minutes. He was alone.

I let him in, and I'm sure I looked as exasperated as I felt.

"I'm so sorry, Sookie," he said. "I didn't know any of this: that Harp had been fired, that he'd developed this fixation on vampires, that you had been arrested. I'm going to have a talk with Danny about keeping me better informed on local matters. What can I do to help you?"

"If you could find out who killed Arlene, it would really help." I may have sounded a little sarcastic. "It was my scarf around her neck, Bill."

"How did you get out, accused of such a crime?"

"Not only was there no absolutely damning evidence tying me to the murder, Eric sent Mustapha to bail me out, which I can't figure. We're not married anymore and he's leaving with Freyda. Why does he care? I mean, I don't think he hates me, but putting up bail money . . ."

Bill said, "Of course he doesn't hate you," but he said it a little abstractedly, as if he'd had a sudden thought. "Though I'm in communication with others at Fangtasia, I'm surprised he hasn't summoned me. It seems I should pay my sheriff a visit . . . and find out when he's leaving us." Bill sat sunk in thought for a long moment. "Who will be the next sheriff?" he said, and his whole body was tense.

Understandably, I hadn't gotten that far in my thinking. What with the losing-my-boyfriend heartache and the murder charge.

"That's a good question," I said, without much interest. "Be sure and let me know when you find out. I guess Felipe will bring in one of his people." I'd worry about that later, when I had the energy. A henchperson of Felipe's could sure make my life more difficult, but I couldn't think about it now.

"Good night, sweetheart," Bill said, to my surprise. "I'm glad to see Karin is earning her keep, though I didn't expect Eric would put her outside your house perpetually."

"Neither did I, but I think it's wonderful."

"I thought Harp was a gentleman. I was wrong."

"Think nothing of it." My eyelids were sagging shut.

He kissed me on the lips. My eyelids were suddenly wide apart. He stepped back, and I caught my breath. Bill had always kissed like a champion. If there'd been a kissing Olympics, he'd have advanced to the finals. But I wasn't starting anything up. I stepped back, too, and let the screen door close between us.

"Sleep well." And Bill was gone, across the yard and into the woods, moving so swiftly and silently that I expected to see "zoom" marks behind him.

But he stopped dead just inside the tree line.

Someone had stepped out in front of him.

I caught the flowing movement of long pale hair. Karin and Bill were in conversation. I hoped Harp Powell didn't try to return to my woods and "interview" Karin. The last human male I'd known who'd been hooked on a vampire female had had a sad end.

And then I yawned and forgot all about the reporter. I locked every lock on every door and window, and crawled into bed.

Chapter 11

When I got up the next morning, it was pouring rain again - yay, no watering! - and I was still tired. I discovered that I didn't know when I'd scheduled myself to work, I didn't have any clean uniforms, and I was almost out of coffee. Also, I stubbed my toe on the kitchen table. All of it was annoying, for sure, but still better than being arrested for murder or waking up in jail.

I decided to pluck my eyebrows while the uniforms were tumbling in the dryer. One of the hairs was suspiciously light. I yanked it out and examined it. Was it gray?

I put on extra makeup, and when I thought I could sound calm, I called my co-boss.

"Sam," I said, when he answered the phone. "I can't remember when I need to be there."

"Sookie," he said, sounding simply weird. "Listen, you stay home today. You were a real trooper yesterday, but give yourself a break."

"But I want to work," I said, speaking very slowly, while I scrambled to figure out what was happening with my friend.

"Sook . . . today, no, don't come in." And he hung up.

Had the whole world gone crazy? Or was it just me? While I stood there holding my phone, doubtless looking like an idiot (which was okay, since there was no one to see me), the phone vibrated in my hand. I shrieked and almost threw it across the room, then gathered myself together and held it to my ear.

"Sookie," said Amelia Broadway, "we'll be there in a little over an hour. Mr. C said I should call you. Don't worry about breakfast, we've already eaten."

It was a measure of how busy my head was that I'd completely forgotten that my New Orleans company was arriving this morning. "Who all's with you?"

"It's me, Bob, Diantha, Mr. C, and an old buddy of yours. You'll be so surprised!" And Amelia hung up.

I hate surprises. But at least I had something to do. Upstairs, the bed in Claude's former room was made up with clean sheets, and I hauled an air mattress I'd gotten for Dermot into the former attic, now a large, empty room with a very large closet. The cot Dermot had used until I'd gotten the air mattress was easy to set up in the second-floor sitting room. After everything was ready upstairs, I made sure the downstairs hall bathroom was still clean, the bedroom across the hall from mine was ready, and the kitchen was orderly. Since I wasn't going to work, I put on some civilian shorts, black with white polka dots, and a white shirt.

Clean enough. Oh, food! I tried to figure out a menu, but I didn't know how long they'd be staying. And Mr. Cataliades was quite an eater.

By the time I heard a car on the gravel driveway, I was more or less ready for company, though I have to admit I wasn't too excited about having more visitors. Amelia and I hadn't parted on good terms in our last face-to-face discussion, though we'd been extending hands to each other across the Internet. Mr. Cataliades always had something interesting to say, but it was seldom news I wanted to hear. Diantha was a mother lode of unexpected talents and very handy to have around. And then there was the mystery guest.

Amelia dashed in first, rain spots all over her blouse, and her boyfriend, Bob, was right on her heels. Bob particularly hated getting wet. I didn't know if that was because he'd spent time as a cat, or if it was because he simply liked dryness. Diantha danced inside, her small bony figure outlined with tight clothes in bright colors. Mr. Cataliades, in his usual black suit, pounded up the steps after her, moving swiftly despite his bulk.

The last person into the house was Barry Bellboy, formerly known as Barry Horowitz.

Years younger than me, Barry was the first telepath I met. Mr. Cataliades was Barry's great-great-grandfather, though I didn't know if Barry had been made aware of that or not.

Like Amelia and me, Barry and I hadn't parted on perfect terms. But we'd gone through a great ordeal together, and that made a bond between us that nothing could break, especially considering the fact that we shared the same disability. The last I'd heard, he'd been working for Stan, the King of Texas . . . though since Stan had been badly injured in the explosion in Rhodes, I had figured Barry'd really been working for Stan's lieutenant, Joseph Velasquez, since then.

Since I'd last seen Barry at a hotel in Rhodes, he had aged and his body had matured. He'd completely lost his endearing gawkiness. Now he seemed more . . . intense and spidery. I handed him a towel to dry his face, which he did with vigor.

How are you? I asked him.

It's a long story, he said. Later.

"Okay," I said out loud. I turned away to greet my other guests. Amelia and I hugged rather awkwardly, inevitably reminded of our final quarrel the last time she'd been here, when she'd totally crossed the line into my personal life. Amelia had rounded out.

"Okay," she began. "Listen, just getting this out of the way. I've said this before, but I want to say it again. I'm sorry. Being such a good witch gave me inflated ideas of running your life, and I'm aware I overshot my boundaries. I won't do it again. I've been trying to mend my fences everywhere. I've been trying to create a relationship with my father, though he turned out to be nothing like I thought he was, and I'm learning some impulse control."

I looked at her carefully, a little confused about the reading I was getting. Amelia had always been an exceptional broadcaster, and she still was. She was sending off waves of sincerity and fear that I'd reject her apology. (However, she still thought very highly of herself, with some justification.) But there was an extra vibe from her. "We'll give starting over a shot," I said, and we smiled at each other in a tentative way. "Bob, how you doing?" I turned to her companion. Bob was not a big man. If I had to pick two adjectives for Bob, they would be "dark" and "nerdy." But I could see that Bob, like Barry, had changed. He was carrying more weight, which looked good. Gauntness had not become him. And Amelia had been smartening up his wardrobe, including his glasses, which now looked sort of European and sophisticated.

"Dang, Bob, you clean up good," I told him, and his thin lips parted in a surprisingly charming smile.

"Thanks, Sookie, you're looking good yourself." He glanced down at his clothes. "Amelia thought I ought to update."

I still couldn't imagine how Bob had forgiven Amelia for turning him into a cat when she didn't know how to turn him back, but after his initial spasm of loathing sent him running to find his remaining family when he'd been returned to human form, he'd come back to her.

"Dear Sookie," said the nearly-all-demon Desmond Cataliades, and I embraced him. It was an effort, but that was what you did with friends. He didn't feel human to the touch, though he looked human enough, with his circular body and scanty dark hair, his dark eyes and jowly face. But there was a certain rubbery feel to his flesh that was not standard. He inhaled deeply while his arms were around me, and I had to fight to keep myself from flinching. Of course, he knew that. He was very skilled at keeping it secret that he could read minds like I could - but he was the one who'd made me what I was, and Barry, too.