Dead Ever After: A True Blood Novel

here for, Mr. Writer?”
    “What did you just do?” he asked, both excited and suspicious.
    “I just decided to talk to you about whatever,” I said. “So talk. What do you want to know?”
    “What happened to Kym Rowe? What’s your perspective?”
    I knew the truth about what had happened to Kym Rowe, and I’d seen Kym’s murderer beheaded.
    “My perspective is that Kym Rowe was a desperate young woman without many morals. She was also hard up financially. From what I understand,” I said cautiously, “someone hired her to seduce Eric Northman, and the same person killed her in Eric’s front yard. I understand that the murderer confessed to the police and then left the country. Kym Rowe’s death seems sad and meaningless to me.”
    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