Dead to the World

Norris lived. The Norris house was little different from any of the others; it had a small front porch with an old armchair and two lawn chairs on it, and two cars parked in front, one a Ford Fiesta and the other an ancient Buick.
    When I parked and got out, I realized what was so unusual about Hotshot.
    No dogs.
    Any other hamlet that looked like this would have at least twelve dogs milling around, and I’d be wondering if I could safely get out of the car. Here, not a single yip broke the winter silence.
    I crossed over the hard, packed dirt of the yard, feeling as though eyes were on every step I took. I opened the torn screen door to knock on the heavier wooden door. Inset in it was a pattern of three glass panes. Dark eyes surveyed me through the lowest one.
    The door opened, just when the pause was beginning to make me anxious.
    Jason’s date from New Year’s Eve was less festive today, in black jeans and a cream-colored T-shirt. Her boots had come from Payless, and her short curly hair was a sort of dusty black. She was thin, intense, and though I’d carded her, she just didn’t look twenty-one.
    “Crystal Norris?”
    “Yeah?” She didn’t sound particularly unfriendly, but she did sound preoccupied.
    “I’m Jason Stackhouse’s sister, Sookie.”
    “Oh, yeah? Come in.” She stood back, and I stepped into the tiny living room. It was crowded with furniture intended for a much larger space: two recliners and a three-cushion couch of dark brown Naugahyde, the big buttons separating the vinyl into little hillocks. You’d stick to it in the summer and slide around on it in the winter. Crumbs would collect in the depression around the buttons.
    There was a stained rug in dark red and yellows and browns, and there were toys strewn in an almost solid layer over it. A picture of the Last Supper hung above the television set, and the whole house smelled pleasantly of red beans and rice and cornbread.
    A toddler was experimenting with Duplos in the doorway to the kitchen. I thought it was a boy, but it was hard to be sure. Overalls and a green turtleneck weren’t exactly a clue, and the baby’s wispy brown hair was neither cut short nor decorated with a bow.
    “Your child?” I asked, trying to make my voice pleasant and conversational.
    “No, my sister’s,” Crystal said. She gestured toward one of the recliners.
    “Crystal, the reason I’m here . . . Did you know that Jason is missing?”
    She was perched on the edge of the couch, and she’d been staring down at her thin hands. When I spoke, she looked into my eyes intently. This was not fresh news to her.
    “Since when?” she asked. Her voice had a pleasantly hoarse sound to it; you’d listen to what this girl had to say, especially if you were a man.
    “Since the night of January first. He left my house, and then the next morning he didn’t show up for work. There was some blood on that little pier out behind the house. His pickup was still in his front yard. The door to it was hanging open.”
    “I don’t know nothing about it,” she said instantly.
    She was lying.
    “Who told you I had anything to do with this?” she asked, working up to being bitchy. “I got rights. I don’t have to talk to you.”
    Sure, that was Amendment 29 to the Constitution: Shifters don’t have to talk to Sookie Stackhouse.
    “Yes, you do.” Suddenly, I abandoned the nice approach. She’d hit the wrong button on me. “I’m not like you. I don’t have a sister or a nephew,” and I nodded at the toddler, figuring I had a fifty-fifty chance of being right. “I don’t have a mom or a dad or anything, anything , except my brother.” I took a deep breath. “I want to know where Jason is. And if you know anything, you better tell me.”
    “Or you’ll do what?” Her thin face was twisted into a snarl. But she genuinely wanted to know what kind of pull I had; I could read that much.
    “Yeah, what?” asked a calmer voice.
    I looked at the doorway to see a man who was probably on the upside of forty. He had a trimmed beard salted with gray, and his hair was cut close to his head. He was a small man, perhaps five foot seven or so, with a lithe build and muscular arms.
    “Anything I have to,” I said. I looked him straight in the eyes. They were a strange golden green. He didn’t seem inimical, exactly. He seemed curious.
    “Why are you here?” he asked, again in that neutral voice.
    “Who are you?” I had to know who this guy was. I wasn’t