“So, the bomber yesterday,” Sam said abruptly.

“Yeah,” I said. “I think maybe a twoey of some kind, right?”

He nodded without looking at me.

“Not a hate crime,” I said, trying to sound matter-of-fact.

“Not a human hate crime,” Sam said. “But I’m sure it’s some kind of hatred.”

“Economic?”

“I can’t think of any economic reason,” he said. “I’m insured, but I’m the only beneficiary if the bar burns down. Of course, I’d be out of business for a while, and I’m sure the other bars in the area would take up the slack, but I can’t see that as an incentive. Much of an incentive,” he corrected himself. “Merlotte’s has always been kind of a family bar, not a wild place. Not like Vic’s Redneck Roadhouse,” he added, a little bitterly.

That was true. “Maybe someone doesn’t like you personally, Sam,” I said, though it came out sounding harsher than I’d intended. “I mean,” I added quickly, “maybe someone wants to hurt you through damaging your business. Not you as a shapeshifter, but you as a person.”

“I don’t recall anything that personal,” he said, genuinely bewildered.

“Ah . . . Jannalynn have a vengeful ex, anything like that?”

Sam was startled by the idea. “I really haven’t heard of anyone who resented me dating her,” he said. “And Jannalynn’s more than capable of speaking her mind. It’s not like I could coerce her into going out with me.”

I had a hard time repressing a snort of laughter. “Just trying to think of all possibilities,” I said apologetically.

“That’s okay,” he said. He shrugged. “Bottom line is, I can’t remember when I’ve made anyone really mad.”

I couldn’t remember any such incident myself, and I’d known Sam for years.

Pretty soon we were pulling up to the antiques shop, which was located in a former paint store in a down-sliding older business street in Shreveport.

The big front windows were sparkling clean, and the pieces that had been positioned there were beautiful. The largest was what my grandmother had called a hunt sideboard. It was heavy and ornate and just about as tall as my chest. The other window featured a collection of jardinières, or vases, I wasn’t sure which to call them. The one in the center, positioned to show that it was the cream of the crop, was sea green and blue and had cherubs stuck on it. I thought it was hideous, but it definitely had style.

Sam and I looked at the display for a moment in thoughtful silence before we went in. A bell—a real bell, not an electronic chime—jangled as we pushed open the door. A woman sitting on a stool behind a counter to the right looked up. She pushed her glasses up on her nose.

“Nice to see you again, Mr. Merlotte,” she said, smiling with just the right intensity. I remember you, I’m glad you came back, but I’m not personally interested in you as a man. She was good.