Dead to the World

light brown hair and light brown eyes and light brown skin—a curiously monochromatic guy. I gave them a quick but comprehensive scan with all my senses.
    I could tell the two were both prepared to find out I’d had a hand in the injuries of the girl I’d brought in, or that I at least knew more than I was saying.
    Of course, they were partially right.
    “Miss Stackhouse? You brought in the young woman Dr. Skinner is treating?” the younger man said gently.
    “Maria-Star,” I said. “Cooper.”
    “Tell us how you came to do that,” the older cop said.
    It was definitely an order, though his tone was moderate. Neither man knew me or knew of me, I “heard.” Good.
    I took a deep breath and dove into the waters of mendacity. “I was driving home from work,” I said. “I work at Merlotte’s Bar—you know where that is?”
    They both nodded. Of course, police would know the location of every bar in the parish.
    “I saw a body lying by the side of the road, on the gravel of the shoulder,” I said carefully, thinking ahead so I wouldn’t say something I couldn’t take back. “So I stopped. There wasn’t anyone else in sight. When I found out she was still alive, I knew I had to get to help. It took me a long time to get her into the car by myself.” I was trying to account for the passage of time since I’d left work and the gravel from Bill’s driveway that I knew would be in her skin. I couldn’t gauge how much care I needed to tell in putting my story together, but more care was better than less.
    “Did you notice any skid marks on the road?” The light brown policeman couldn’t go long without asking a question.
    “No, I didn’t notice. They may have been there. I was just—after I saw her, all I thought about was her.”
    “So?” the older man prompted.
    “I could tell she was hurt real bad, so I got her here as fast as I could.” I shrugged. End of my story.
    “You didn’t think about calling an ambulance?”
    “I don’t have a cell phone.”
    “Woman who comes home from work that late, by herself, really ought to have a cell phone, ma’am.”
    I opened my mouth to tell him that if he felt like paying the bill, I’d be glad to have one, when I restrained myself. Yes, it would be handy to have a cell phone, but I could barely afford my regular phone. My only extravagance was cable TV, and I justified that by telling myself it was my only recreational spending. “I hear you,” I said briefly.
    “And your full name is?” This from the younger man. I looked up, met his eyes.
    “Sookie Stackhouse,” I said. He’d been thinking I seemed kind of shy and sweet.
    “You the sister of the man who’s missing?” The gray-haired man bent down to look in my face.
    “Yes, sir.” I looked down at my toes again.
    “You’re sure having a streak of bad luck, Miss Stackhouse.”
    “Tell me about it,” I said, my voice shaking with sincerity.
    “Have you ever seen this woman, the woman you brought in, before tonight?” The older officer was scribbling in a little notepad he’d produced from a pocket. His name was Curlew, the little pin on his pocket said.
    I shook my head.
    “You think your brother might have known her?”
    I looked up, startled. I met the eyes of the brown man again. His name was Stans. “How the heck would I know?” I asked. I knew in the next second that he’d just wanted me to look up again. He didn’t know what to make of me. The monochromatic Stans thought I was pretty and seemed like a good little Samaritan. On the other hand, my job was one educated nice girls didn’t often take, and my brother was well known as a brawler, though many of the patrol officers liked him.
    “How is she doing?” I asked.
    They both glanced at the door behind which the struggle to save the young woman went on.
    “She’s still alive,” Stans said.
    “Poor thing,” I said. Tears rolled down my cheeks, and I began fumbling in my pockets for a tissue.
    “Did she say anything to you, Miss Stackhouse?”
    I had to think about that. “Yes,” I said. “She did.” The truth was safe, in this instance.
    They both brightened at the news.
    “She told me her name. She said her legs hurt worst, when I asked her,” I said. “And she said that the car had hit her, but not run her over.”
    The two men looked at each other.
    “Did she describe the car?” Stans asked.
    It was incredibly tempting to describe the witches’ car. But I mistrusted the glee that bubbled up