Dead to the World

but she was underage. She had a new stepdad, and he decided Carlton had disrespected him.”
    No politically correct stance could cover all those circumstances. “So what happened?”
    “No one knows. Late that night, John Dowdy’s patrol car was found halfway back into town from Hotshot. No one in it. No blood, no fingerprints. He hasn’t ever been seen since. No one in Hotshot remembered seeing him that day, they said.”
    “Like Jason,” I said bleakly. “He just vanished.”
    “But Jason was at his own house, and according to you, Crystal didn’t seem to be involved.”
    I threw off the grip of the strange little story. “You’re right. Did anyone ever find out what happened to Sheriff Dowdy?”
    “No. But no one ever saw Carlton Norris again, either.”
    Now, that was the interesting part. “And the moral of this story is?”
    “That the people of Hotshot take care of their own justice.”
    “Then you want them on your side.” I extracted my own moral from the story.
    “Yes,” Sam said. “You definitely want them on your side. You don’t remember this? It was around fifteen years ago.”
    “I was coping with my own troubles then,” I explained. I’d been an orphaned eleven-year-old, coping with my growing telepathic powers.
    Shortly after that, people began to stop by the bar on their way home from work. Sam and I didn’t get a chance to talk the rest of the evening, which was fine with me. I was very fond of Sam, who’d often had a starring role in some of my most private fantasies, but at this point, I had so much to worry about I just couldn’t take on any more.
    That night, I discovered that some people thought Jason’s disappearance improved Bon Temps society. Among these were Andy Bellefleur and his sister, Portia, who stopped by Merlotte’s for supper, since their grandmother Caroline was having a dinner party and they were staying out of the way. Andy was a police detective and Portia was a lawyer, and they were both not on my list of favorite people. For one thing (a kind of sour-grapey thing), when Bill had found out they were his descendants, he’d made an elaborate plan to give the Bellefleurs money anonymously, and they’d really enjoyed their mysterious legacy to the hilt. But they couldn’t stand Bill himself, and it made me constantly irritated to see their new cars and expensive clothes and the new roof on the Bellefleur mansion, when they dissed Bill all the time—and me, too, for being Bill’s girlfriend.
    Andy had been pretty nice to me before I started dating Bill. At least he’d been civil and left a decent tip. I’d just been invisible to Portia, who had her own share of personal woes. She’d come up with a suitor, I’d heard, and I wondered maliciously if that might not be due to the sudden upsurge in the Bellefleur family fortunes. I also wondered, at times, if Andy and Portia got happy in direct proportion to my misery. They were in fine fettle this winter evening, both tucking into their hamburgers with great zest.
    “Sorry about your brother, Sookie,” Andy said, as I refilled his tea glass.
    I looked down at him, my face expressionless. Liar, I thought. After a second, Andy’s eyes darted uneasily away from mine to light on the saltshaker, which seemed to have become peculiarly fascinating.
    “Have you seen Bill lately?” Portia asked, patting her mouth with a napkin. She was trying to break the uneasy silence with a pleasant query, but I just got angrier.
    “No,” I said. “Can I get you all anything else?”
    “No, thanks, we’re just fine,” she said quickly. I spun on my heel and walked away. Then my mouth puckered in a smile. Just as I was thinking, Bitch, Portia was thinking, What a bitch.
    Her ass is hot, Andy chimed in. Gosh, telepathy. What a blast. I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy. I envied people who only heard with their ears.
    Kevin and Kenya came in, too, very carefully not drinking. Theirs was a partnership that had given the people of Bon Temps much hilarity. Lily white Kevin was thin and reedy, a long-distance runner; all the equipment he had to wear on his uniform belt seemed almost too much for him to carry. His partner, Kenya, was three inches taller, pounds heavier, and fifteen shades darker. The men at the bar had been putting bets down for two years on whether or not they’d become lovers—of course, the guys at the bar didn’t put it as nicely as that.
    I was unwillingly aware that Kenya (and her