Ch 3

Claire got off the bus a block away from her house. The conductor, noticing that the bus was empty save for her, had offered to drop her off at her house instead of a bus stop. He figured he could break the rules, just this once, for someone in need. She thanked him for his kindness, but told him an address just slightly down the street from her house. If her mother was still up, she certainly wouldn't like seeing her daughter come home at one am on a bus from Shreveport, a long way away from where she had been told Claire was. The conductor had also offered to walk her to her door, but she politely declined.

Once Claire heard the bus drive away, she slowly began walking down the street. She kept her left hand outstretched, looking for mailboxes. Her hand hit one, and she felt for the large sticker numbers that would allow her to navigate. The box read number 2976, three houses down from hers. Swatting at a mosquito on her arm, she began walking again, still keeping her hand out to find the mail boxes.

Her feet dragged as her hand hit another mailbox, but this time the number was her own, number 2982. She turned and walked perpendicular to the sidewalk, her feet hitting grass as the blackness that she saw brightened slightly to a deep shade of gray. Claire immediately froze, knowing that the light had to be from her mother, meaning she couldn't use the front door and instead had to enter through the back kitchen door. Claire crouched down, so much that she could almost crawl, trying to hide herself. She inched forward until she sensed her house close by. She followed the outside walls of her house until she felt the ramshackle wooden stairs that lead up to the back door. She paused for a moment, making sure the coast was clear. There was no light coming from the window in the backdoor, so she took it to mean that nobody was in the kitchen.

Claire reached out and caught the railing on the steps, feeling the separating fibers under her palm. She crept her way up, easing herself onto each new step with her toes. She reached for the screen door, pulling it open just enough to squeeze by, knowing that opening it too much would make the rusting metal squeak. She stepped into the kitchen, buzzing from the sound of the refrigerator, and stood in a cloud of cool air. She turned and continued tip-toeing her way to the door a few paces to her right, the one with the winding stairs. Finding the handle, she turned it slowly, and then opened the door.

If she wasn't blind before, she certainly was now as an incredibly bright white light burned her eyes, forcing her snap them shut. By instinct she blinked several times to let her eyes adjust to the light, but her efforts were in vain since she already saw everything as if her eyes were closed.

They didn't say anything at first. Claire could feel her mother's presence in front of her, smell the chokingly sterile disinfectant that came from the hospital where she worked. She waited for her mother to start yelling at her, to say something, yet it was silent. She began wondering if perhaps her mother had just left the light on, that her mind was playing tricks, and that her mother was in fact not standing in the hidden staircase. She opened her mouth, but a sharp voice cut her off.

"Do you have any idea what I've been through?" Snapped Ms. Winfield, clearly livid. She spat every word as if she was throwing knifes, sharp and quick, with emphasis on the first syllable. Claire's heart started thumping, and she felt a cold sweat begin on the back of her neck. She closed her mouth and swallowed, lowering her suddenly pale face away from her mother's view. Even though she couldn't see her mother, the daggers she was staring at Claire with were palpable.

"I have been up all night waiting for you. I don't even want to know where you have been because it is obvious that you did not go to Lauren's party. I don't even want to look at your face right now. Go upstairs. Go to bed. And for your own sake, do not come down before I leave for work tomorrow." Ms. Winfield paused for a moment, letting this information sink in. Claire only looked up when she heard the dull beat of her mother's feet marching up the stairs, then down the wooden hall floors upstairs. Claire exhaled and let her shoulders droop. She ran her hand through her hair, which had gained some volume from the humidity outside. Sliding her foot along the floor until it reached the beginning of the bottom step, she began climbing the staircase, her hand on the wall to keep her in the spiral of the stairs. At the top of the stairs she felt for the light switch and, upon finding it, she flicked the plastic nub down. She sighed again as the now bright gray turned to black again.

In her room, Claire kicked her flats off into a corner by her door. She walked across the room to her lone window, feeling the blinds to make sure they were closed before she changed into her pajamas. She was too tired to wash her face or brush her teeth, so she just climbed into bed, letting herself completely relax.

Claire had been hoping that the night's events would leave her drained of energy and able to fall asleep immediately, but adrenaline was still coursing through her system, and left her unable to sleep. Thinking back to what her mother had said, about not wanting to see her face had left Claire feeling depressed. Claire still held the adolescent want to have distance from her parents, but that want did not extend to being alone. Somehow, when she was given this distance, the request from her mother to stay away, she did not want it. She wondered if this was how her mother felt whenever Claire had told her not to come somewhere with her.

Reaching over to her bedside table, she hit a large button on her alarm clock, and a soft electronic voice said "one-ten AM". Claire sighed at how late it was. She groped around the table, looking for her ancient walkman. She knew walkmans were very out of date, but her mother couldn't afford an Ipod for her, and the library had books on CD that you could check out. Claire found out early on that it took too long to read Braille books, having to read them letter by letter. It was much easier to listen to a soft woman's voice as she tells a story. It also had a calming effect on her, like a mother reading to her child. Claire wondered why more people didn't listen to books on CD's. She smiled as she listened to the peril of Alice in Wonderland.

Back at Fangtasia, Ginger was on her hands and knees scrubbing the floors clean of all the spilled alcohol and Trubloods. Pam was lounging in a chair nearby, inspecting her already perfectly manicured nails. She glanced down at Ginger with a sneer, making sure she was still cleaning. While looking down, her eyes wandered to her pink shoes, admiring them. She noticed that there was a small scuffmark along one of the platform from running earlier that day. She frowned as she looked at it, studying the severity of the imperfection. She rubbed the scuffed shoe against her leg, thinking it might be a smudge of dirt, but the mark stayed. Pam cursed, knowing that she would have to send them to a cobbler on the western side of Texas to have them repaired. She trusted very few people with her shoes, and these were one of her favorite pairs. She cursed again, louder than before, causing Ginger to scream in surprise.

Eric was in his office, thinking. This Sookie girl was clearly special, and he planned to meet her again. He didn't know how she knew about the police raid, and this unknown made him concerned. She seemed to realize all of a sudden that it was going to happen, as if the thought just popped in her head. Perhaps Pam knew something…

"Pam," He called quietly, knowing she could hear him from the main club. He stopped pacing his office to face the door as Pam appeared there.

"Yes?" She said, her tone a mix of boredom and annoyance.

"What do you know about Sookie Stackhouse?"

"Not much. She's 25 and lives in Bon Temps." Pam said, eager to get back to her shoe dilemma. "Perhaps you should ask Bill about her. She is his, as you know."

"There is something unique about her. I intend to find out what it is." Eric said, his deep voice definite. He moved to sit in a chair behind his desk, looking away from Pam, a silent dismissal. She continued standing in his office though, contemplating whether to tell him about the minors in the club that night or just let it go. Eric glanced back to her, noticing that she was still there.

"What is it Pam?" Asked Eric nonchalant, noticing the vague look on her face. Pam sighed, knowing she had to tell him now.

"Three minors entered the club without me knowing tonight," she said. Eric looked up, eyebrows raised slightly, an unspoken question.

"I took care of it." She said smiling, while Eric frowned at her, his eyes becoming hard. "I didn't hurt them, just brought them to the back to question them. They told me about another friend they had. I went and found her," She said, smirking.

"…and?" asked Eric, seeming uninterested. He really didn't care about these children, he just wanted to make sure that Pam had not harmed them. He would already have to answer to the human police after searching his bar, and didn't want any more trouble. Pam huffed, angry that this conversation had carried on longer than expected. She wanted to have her shoes in the mail before dawn, but Eric was making her lose time.

"I found her as she was leaving. She was in a rush to get out, so I let her," her irritation turning into boredom again. Then she remembered that the girl had known about the raid. She didn't want to tell Eric, concerned that he would become interested. She began wishing that she had just left when given the chance. Eric noticed the change in her expression and became curious. Pam seemed concerned about something, and concern was an emotion that she rarely displayed. He turned to face her completely, and looked at her. He felt her indecision, and questioned it.

"There is something you are not telling me."

"She knew about the police raid." She replied, annoyed, folding her arms over her chest in hopes of ending the conversation. Eric didn't have the same hopes in mind. He leaned forward, interested.

"Her name?"

"Claire Winfield." Said Pam, irritated. "Is that all? I have a pair of pumps that need me."

Eric smirked at Pam's petty concern. Her waved her off and turned to his laptop, opening it. He was going to find out more about this Sookie Stackhouse, and then he would look into the Claire Winfield problem. He had a suspicion that she was in on the police raid, an undercover cop. But why would the police send a minor in to do an adult's work? He intended to find out.