I tried not to worry about Eric or anything else the rest of the day. I’d had a text message inviting me to have lunch with Tara and JB, and I was glad to have their company. Tara had gotten Dr. Dinwiddie to check very carefully, and sure enough, he’d found another heartbeat. She and JB were stunned, in a happy way. Tara had fi xed creamed chicken to spoon over biscuits, and she’d made a spinach casserole and a fruit salad. I had a great time at their little house, and JB checked my wrists and said they were almost back to normal. Tara was all excited about the baby shower JB’s aunt was planning on giving them in Clarice, and she assured me I’d get an invitation. We picked a date for her shower in Bon Temps, and she promised she’d register online.

By the time I got home, I figured I’d better put a load of wash in, and I washed my bath mat, too, and hung it out on the line to dry. While I was outside, I made sure I had my little plastic squirt gun, full of lemon juice, tucked in my pocket. I didn’t want to get caught by surprise again. I just couldn’t figure out what I’d done to deserve having an apparently (judging by Claude’s reaction) hostile fairy tromping around my property.

My cell phone rang as I trailed gloomily back to the house. “Hey, Sis,” Jason said. He was cooking on the grill. I could hear the sizzle. “Michele and me are cooking out. You want to come? I got plenty of steak.”

“Thanks, but I ate at JB and Tara’s. Give me a rain check on that.”

“Sure thing. I got your message. Tomorrow at eight, right?”

“Yeah. Let’s ride over to Shreveport together.”

“Sure. I’ll pick you up at seven at your place.”

“See you then.”

“Gotta go!”

Jason did not like long phone conversations. He’d broken up with girls who wanted to chat while they shaved their legs and painted their nails.

It was not a great commentary on my life that the prospect of meeting with a bunch of unhappy Weres seemed like a good time—or at least an interesting time.

Kennedy was bartending when I got to work the next day. She told me that Sam had a final, take-the-checkbook appointment with his accountant, who’d gotten an extension since Sam had been so late turning all the paperwork over.

Kennedy looked as pretty as she always did. She refused to wear the shorts most of the rest of us wore in warm weather, instead opting for tailored khakis and a fancy belt with her Merlotte’s T-shirt. Kennedy’s makeup and hair were pageant quality. I glanced automatically at Danny Prideaux’s usual barstool. Empty.