I drove right by and turned around on a county road about half a mile farther out. Confused and worried, I returned to park outside Tray’s. His house and the adjacent workshop were outside the Bon Temps city limits but not isolated. Tray had maybe a half-acre lot; his little home and the large metal building housing his repair business were right next to a similar setup owned by Brock and Chessie Johnson, who had an upholstery shop. Obviously, Brock and Chessie had retreated to their house for the night. The living room lights were on; as I watched, Chessie pulled the curtains shut, which most people out here didn’t bother to do.

The night was dark and quiet; the Johnsons’ dog was barking, but that was the only sound. It was too cold for the chorus of bugs that often made the night come alive.

I thought of several scenarios that could explain the dead look of the house.

One. The vampire blood still had hold over Tray, and he’d killed Amelia. Right now, he was in his house, in the dark, thinking of ways to kill himself. Or maybe he was waiting for me to come, so he could kill me, too.

Two. Tray had recovered from his ingestion of vamp blood, and when Amelia had appeared on his doorstep, they’d decided to treat their free afternoon as a honeymoon. They wouldn’t be at all happy if I interrupted them.

Three. Amelia had come by, found no one at home, and was now back at the house cooking supper for herself and me, because she expected me to drive up at any moment. At least that explanation accounted for the absence of Amelia’s car.

I tried to think of an even better series of events, but I couldn’t. I pulled out my cell phone and tried my home number. I heard my own voice on the answering machine. Next, I tried Amelia’s cell. It went to voice mail after three rings. I was running out of happy options. Figuring that a phone call would be less intrusive than a knock at the door, I tried Tray’s number next. I could hear the faint ring of the phone inside . . . but no one answered it.

I called Bill. I didn’t think about it for more than a second. I just did it.

“Bill Compton,” said the familiar cool voice.

“Bill,” I said, and then couldn’t finish.

“Where are you?”

“I’m sitting in my car outside of Tray Dawson’s house.”

“The Were who owns the motorcycle repair shop.”

“Right.”

“I’m coming.”

He was there in less than ten minutes. His car pulled up behind mine. I was pulled over on the shoulder, because I hadn’t wanted to drive up onto the gravel in front of the house.

“I’m weak,” I said, when he got in beside me. “I shouldn’t have called you. But I swear to God, I didn’t know what else to do.”