Dead to the World

to Shreveport, I’d be out of touch with what was happening here. On the other hand, I’d be doing something.
    While I was trying to decide if there were any more hands to consider, something else happened.
    It was even odder than the preceding events of the day. There I was, parked in the middle of nowhere at the side of a parish road, when a sleek, black, brand-new Camaro pulled onto the shoulder behind me. Out of the passenger’s side stepped a gorgeous woman, at least six feet tall. Of course, I remembered her; she’d been in Merlotte’s on New Year’s Eve. My friend Tara Thornton was in the driver’s seat.
    Okay , I thought blankly, staring into the rearview mirror, this is weird . I hadn’t seen Tara in weeks, since we’d met by chance in a vampire club in Jackson, Mississippi. She’d been there with a vamp named Franklin Mott; he’d been very handsome in a senior-citizen sort of way, polished, dangerous, and sophisticated.
    Tara always looks great. My high school friend has black hair, and dark eyes, and a smooth olive complexion, and she has a lot of intelligence that she uses running Tara’s Togs, an upscale women’s clothing store that rents space in a strip mall Bill owns. (Well, it’s as upscale as Bon Temps has to offer.) Tara had become a friend of mine years before, because she came from an even sadder background than mine.
    But the tall woman put even Tara in the shade. She was as dark-haired as Tara, though the new woman had reddish highlights that surprised the eye. She had dark eyes, too, but hers were huge and almond-shaped, almost abnormally large. Her skin was as pale as milk, and her legs were as long as a stepladder. She was quite gifted in the bosom department, and she was wearing fire engine red from head to toe. Her lipstick matched.
    “Sookie,” Tara called. “What’s the matter?” She walked carefully up to my old car, watching her feet because she was wearing glossy, brown leather, high-heeled boots she didn’t want to scuff. They’d have lasted five minutes on my feet. I spend too much of my time standing up to worry about footwear that only looks good.
    Tara looked successful, attractive, and secure, in her sage green sweater and taupe pants. “I was putting on my makeup when I heard over the police scanner that something was up at Jason’s house,” she said. She slid in the passenger’s seat and leaned over to hug me. “When I got to Jason’s, I saw you pulling out. What’s up?” The woman in red was standing with her back to the car, tactfully looking out into the woods.
    I’d adored my father, and I’d always known (and my mother herself definitely believed) that no matter what Mother put me through, she was acting out of love. But Tara’s parents had been evil, both alcoholics and abusers. Tara’s older sisters and brothers had left home as fast as they could, leaving Tara, as the youngest, to foot the bill for their freedom.
    Yet now that I was in trouble, here she was, ready to help.
    “Well, Jason’s gone missing,” I said, in a fairly level voice, but then I ruined the effect by giving one of those awful choking sobs. I turned my face so I’d be looking out my window. I was embarrassed to show such distress in front of the new woman.
    Wisely ignoring my tears, Tara began asking me the logical questions: Had Jason called in to work? Had he called me the night before? Who had he been dating lately?
    That reminded me of the shifter girl who’d been Jason’s date New Year’s Eve. I thought I could even talk about the girl’s otherness, because Tara had been at Club Dead that night. Tara’s tall companion was a supe of some kind. Tara knew all about the secret world.
    But she didn’t, as it turned out.
    Her memory had been erased. Or at least she pretended it had.
    “What?” Tara asked, with almost exaggerated confusion. “Werewolves? At that nightclub? I remember seeing you there. Honey, didn’t you drink a little too much and pass out, or something?”
    Since I drink very sparingly, Tara’s question made me quite angry, but it was also the most unremarkable explanation Franklin Mott could have planted in Tara’s head. I was so disappointed at not getting to confide in her that I closed my eyes so I wouldn’t have to see the blank look on her face. I felt tears leaving little paths down my cheeks. I should have just let it go, but I said, in a low, harsh voice, “No, I didn’t.”
    “Omigosh, did your date put something in your