I went into work earlier than I was expected the next morning. Not as an employee but, rather, to ask Mr. C for advice. I sat across his desk and passed him the envelope Eric had given me on my birthday. I'd been sitting on it a few days.

"Oh, my…" he said as he adjusted his half-moon reading glasses. The check appeared comically small between large stubby fingers.

"Is it legitimate?" I asked.

"It would appear so. It's certainly Felipe's signature." He turned it over and back again. He returned it to the envelope and handed it back to me. "What do you intend to do?"

"Deposit it and pay off the rest of the debt I owe on the Dogwood property."

"The sooner you deposit the check the better. Probate administration after a vampire death can be messy and span years. Better to claim your funds lest his assets be frozen and handed over to the executor for management, provided it's not too late."

"Would it be?" I asked, alarmed.

"Likely not. Fighting is still ongoing to claim the throne in Nevada."

"Phew. I'm on my way to deposit the check now, then. I also want to give the leftover money to Jason to invest into the farmhouse. Get it in good condition for his growing family. Maybe put what's remaining in a college fund for the kids. Is that something you could help me with?"

"Yes. Now, about that…" Mr. C said. He took off his glasses, folding them carefully between his hands. "I'm afraid I have somewhat of a confession to make."

He set the glasses down and walked across the room to his bookshelf. He pulled at a red-spined book. It opened a tiny secret hatch within the shelf which revealed a safe. I watched on curiously. I'd never been aware there was a secret compartment hiding in his large mahogany bookcases. He stood with his back to me, rummaging in the safe, before closing it and passing me a manila envelope.

"What is this?" I asked and peeped inside. From what I could see of the top of the page, it was a property sale contract.

"I purchased your parents' home from Jason," he said, "to enable him to quickly acquire the farmhouse from you."

"What?" I spluttered, before remembering my manners. "I beg your pardon? Why?" I pulled the contract out and examined it. Sure enough. He had. My heart rattled around in my ribcage.

"Sookie, while we have only become close in recent months, I have long regarded you as family. I promised Fintan I would keep an eye out for you and help where I could." He lifted a hand when I opened my mouth to protest. I mean, there was helping and then there was helping! "I know you recognize the importance of keeping your ancestral property in the family and that it goes beyond merely your family's history." He said this with some significance and a knowing look. I was keenly aware of my role as unofficial guardian of the fairy portal on my family's land. "Purchasing Jason's property quickly meant it would be a smoother and less painful process for you both."

"But I've driven past the house since he sold it. It's been updated!" The roof had been replaced, there was a new attached carport. From what I could tell, even the interior had even been refurbished.

"Well, that just makes good fiscal sense. Particularly if I want to sell resell it."

"You're planning on reselling?" Now I was really confused. I withdrew the sale contract; the paper was fresh and crisp but dated back in June of the year before from when the sale had gone through.

"If the right buyer presents themselves," he said, "I might even be inclined to sell it for the same price I bought it."

Suddenly it made sense. "Really?"

He nodded. "It was always my intention."

My eyes filled with tears, and I smiled a wobbly smile. I told Desmond I'd need to speak with Jason first. I hurried to my desk and tried Jason on his cell. He was at work but thankfully picked up right away.

"Jason… If we had the opportunity to buy back your old place. Would you consider it?"

"Oh, shit yeah!" he said. "Of course, I would. Like we could afford it, though. Have you seen it? It looks practically brand new!"

I laughed a little, incredulous and joyful and sniffling.

"Are you all right, Sook? What's going on?"

"That money came through," I told him. Even as I said it, I still couldn't quite believe it. I felt like my heart was about to burst.

"The money? What money?" Then he gasped, comically loud. "Wait–you mean the money? The arson money that bastard vamp king owes you?"

"Yes. And the owner of your old place has offered to sell it back to you, provided you're interested."

"Ah, Sookie. It's gonna cost more than what I sold it for. I don't think it's gonna happen. Not if we wanna keep the farmhouse too."

I pulled out a legal pad and a pencil from my drawer and did some rough calculations as he spoke. "Jase, I think with the amount I've been given, and with how much I've paid off of my debt since I started this job… I can pay off the rest of what I owe on the Dogwood bar, buy back your house on Parish Road, and still have a little left over. Maybe enough to start a college fund for Corbett."

"Sookie…" He let out a long breath that crackled through the receiver. "You'd do that?"

"Of course. I'd do anything for my family."

"Well, shucks." His voice grew husky with emotion. "Let's see about getting the farmhouse put back into your name, then? I love that place, but man oh man, it needs so much done to it. And the garden! It grows like you wouldn't believe!"

"I know!" I laughed through my tears. The farmhouse would be mine again! After leaving the office, I phoned Sid Matt Lancaster on my cell. Sid Matt was the Bon Temps' lawyer that had helped Jason and I many a time in the past, and he agreed to handle the conveyance of the farmhouse title from Jason's name to mine. There'd be some fees, but I didn't care. It was worth it.

I walked the few blocks to the Central Business District with a skip in my step and deposited my check at the bank, then stopped by a darling little café I stumbled upon for chicory coffee and a pastry as a celebratory treat. I couldn't have wiped the smile off my face if I'd tried.

•───── ─────•

Three days later, I was back on the case.

No, not Lydia's murder. The case of Walt Buhler, millionaire commodities trader by day and money-squirreling philanderer by night. I had intended to put this little mystery to bed the night of Lydia's murder, when I'd been investigating him until I accidentally stumbled into Lydia's murder scene. Instead, his case had been sitting on the back burner for the last week and a half.

Walt worked in the offices of Stromme Incorporated, which was situated in a tall office building smack bang in the middle of New Orleans Central Business District. His wife had phoned in a tip to the law office, saying that he was having a personal meeting that day with his financial adviser in his office, so naturally I was called in.

I rode the elevator to the seventh floor. Stromme Incorporated was a petrochemical manufacturer and distributor based out of New Orleans. That in itself wasn't particularly unusual since energy production and distribution was Louisiana's biggest export, and this office wasn't their main headquarters but rather the main base for Stromme's finance guys. The place where they secured contracts, maximized profit for the company, and then made buckets more profit through speculating on the market.

I lingered outside the entrance of their seventh-floor office, rifling through each mind inside, in much the same way you'd flick through a rolodex until you found the right contact. I landed upon Walt and his financial adviser; a guy named Stephen; they were situated in the back corner of the office. I'd bet my boots Walt had a glorious view of the Mississippi from his desk.

I pushed through the glass-doored entrance and a middle-aged receptionist greeted me from behind a glossy white reception desk. In my best impression of a docile, unassuming wife, I told her my husband was having a meeting inside and asked if it wouldn't be too much trouble to wait for him in the reception. "Go right ahead," she said. I sat on the stiff-cushioned gray couches, retrieved my notepad and got to work.

I floated between both Walt and Stephen's minds trying to follow the flow of their conversation, which was tricky considering I wasn't actually in the room to hear it. People don't think in a linear manner, especially when in conversation. A person simultaneously absorbs and reacts to what the speaker says, all the while formulating what they're going to say in response. And both streams of thought are constantly changing.

They were discussing 401k contributions, some personal commodities investments that seemed kind of paltry in size (if he was as rich as his wife made him out to be). And then, I finally hit payload. Walt wasn't a particularly visual thinker, yet I got a flash of his laptop screen as he logged into an online banking platform. He mentally recited his login details and password as he typed them in, and I scribbled the details down. Not of his login or password... but the bank name and the accounts he held. Sweet baby Jesus, he had more than one account with seven figures!

Once I had all I needed, I made a quick exit, telling the receptionist I'd left something in my car.

I glanced over my notes as I waited for the elevator. I had so much on my plate as it was, I was relieved to finally have this job out of the way and palm it off back off to the other investigator at the firm, who could continue to do the grunt work when it came to proving his extramarital affair. I was pleased that my efforts could help his wife, a woman spurned. I glanced up as a figure approached.

"Going down?" I asked and then took in the man's appearance. Ah, another guard. He was a twoey that stood well over six-feet-tall and wore the familiar black garb that my guards had been all week. "I thought Pam had called y'all off."

"Sorry?" he said.

"You're with Stronghold Security?"

He looked at me for a long moment before nodding. I couldn't get a clear read on his thoughts, but I detected that this fact was true. We rode in silence, and I shot a quick email from my phone to Wendy LaTour letting her know the basics of what I'd heard.

The information wasn't admissible in divorce proceedings, but it opened the potential for authorities to investigate him for tax evasion, though I didn't expect his wife to do that. My guess was that she would use the information as leverage to get him to split his assets rather than face the wrath of the IRS. I felt an uncomfortable prickle as I realized that was tantamount to blackmail. I took a deep breath as my thumb hovered over send.

"What're you working on?" Mr. Big and Beefy asked me.

"Work assignment," I murmured absently. We reached the ground floor and the elevator dinged.

"Walter Buhler, huh?" he said. His hand clamped down on my shoulder.

In that moment I realized I'd made a mistake. A big fat one. While I'd been lost in thought, my guard had been reading over my shoulder, and while Big and Beefy here did indeed work for Stronghold Security, he worked not for my vampire pal Pam, but for Walt Buhler himself. Crab sticks. What were the chances?

The elevator doors parted open, and he began pushing me out into the lobby.

"Miss," he said, whispered the words directly into my ear. "You can save yourself a world of trouble if you just hand your phone over to me." He pressed a button on the pretentious Bluetooth headset wrapped around his ear. "Yes, I got her."

Panic galloped to life in my stomach and my every instinct told me to bolt like a spooked horse.

I wrenched myself free from his grasp and tore through the lobby, shouldering my way between a couple of surprised businessmen. I pushed the front doors of the building open so hard it was as if they blasted out onto the street. I heard the guard yell out for me to stop, but I sprinted across the street and took the first right down the next boulevard. The sound of his heavy bootsteps and loud yells followed closely behind. He was built for weightlifting, not for running which worked to my benefit, but unfortunately, I wasn't exactly built for running either.

"Stop her! Thief!"

I pumped my arms harder, willing myself forward. Bootsteps chased behind me, close like a shadow. I didn't dare look just how close. It felt like he was practically within grabbing distance, like he could reach out and just pluck me off my feet. I ran out into the street, leaping over a narrow traffic island comprised of low hedges and darted out in front of an approaching car on the other side. It braked in time, but the angry blow a horn had heads from every which way turning in my direction. My heart leaped at the near collision, but adrenaline drove me forward. I dodged the car and kept running.

What was wrong with me? I berated myself. I'd been so brazen, how hadn't I realized that a freaking were guard was watching me while I was in the Stromme offices?

"Someone stop that lady!" he hollered. And a young guy in a business suit made a half-hearted attempt to grab me, but I forced him back with a fierce elbow to his chest. He let go with a yell.

"Move outta the way!" I screeched as I ran on past, and the few pedestrians cleared the sidewalk for me to run on through.

My feet screamed at me; my low heels cut painfully into the backs of my feet. What a stupid footwear choice I'd made. My ballet bun, which I'd so painstaking rolled my hair into that morning, unfurled and slapped like a limp noodle against my neck. I careened around into a tiny side street, with tall brick buildings drawing high on either side of me. The green of Lafayette Square loomed ahead like the pearly gates. I just needed to get across the square and safely into law offices of my work on the other side. No way Mr. Big and Beefy would be able to get past security at the building's front entrance. I'd be home free and clear. It spurred me forward. I just had to make it across the square.

I was hit from behind by what felt like a freight train. I landed on the ground like a sack of potatoes. The wind was knocked clean out of me with a grunt.

"Gotcha."

I cried out, or rather tried to, but promptly rolled over and had a hand clamped over my mouth.

"Street's empty, ain't no one helping you."

He spoke into his headset, giving whoever was on the other end our location. I snarled and bit down on his hand. He wasn't the only one who could act like a dog. He growled, low and angry, and using his free hand he dragged me to standing by the scruff of my blouse. He pushed me up against the nearest wall. "I don't wanna knock you out, lady, but I will. Now give me your phone."

I shook my head.

"Give me your fucking phone!" He shook me and my head slammed against the brickwork. Pain burst like a firework at the back of my skull and my vision swam.

I lifted the phone, which was still clutched in my fist, as his gaze followed my movements. Without ceremony, I dropped my phone, it landed face up onto the concrete and at that same moment I jammed the heel of my shoe into the screen. Glass, metal and plastic crunched into millions of tiny pieces under my heel.

"You idiot."

"Sorry," I said, not sorry at all, though I doubted he understood what I was saying with his hand still muffling my mouth. He dragged me around to the side of the building, leaving my ruined phone on the pavement. I fought him every inch of the way, trying desperately to wrench myself from his grasp.

"Stop it now or I'll bite you," he said lifting his top lip to reveal a row of white, though extremely crooked, teeth. "Then you can take your chances next full moon."

I immediately stopped. One bitten-were in the family was enough. He removed his hand from my mouth and began relaying our exact coordinates to Mr. Buhler, or whoever it was on the other side of his Bluetooth headset.

"You're gonna regret this," I said as soon as he finished talking, "I know the Alph—" My words were cut off by his hand pressing over my mouth once more, and I let out a muffled yell in frustration.

A few minutes later a dark sedan pulled up at the end of the alley and a door opened. The guard dragged me along, pushed me inside the vehicle and slammed the door behind me.

Walt Buhler sat in back seat and watched without remark as I grabbed for the door handle. It was locked, predictably. I was tempted to unlock it and make my escape, but the small handgun Walt pointed my way told me that would be a stupid idea. The driver, who looked to be the kind that would deny any felony he witnessed (and even the existence of the the sun in the sky if he were asked to), pulled away from the curb. We drove away from Lafayette Square and south, away from even Walt's office.

"What agency do you work for?" Walt asked calmly.

"I don't work for any agency," I replied, still somewhat out of breath. Dang, what were all those murderous 6am spin classes for if I couldn't run a measly four blocks in heels?

"IRS? FBI?" he pressed.

What? "I'm not a government agent."

"You were at the scene of that girl's death at Tulane. I saw you talking to police. How long have you been tailing me for?"

I scrambled for an answer that didn't make me seem even more suspicious, but my brain stalled the longer I stared at his gun. I settled for deflection instead. "Do you normally make a habit of pointing weapons at alleged government agents? If I really were one, then how exactly do you think this will end to your benefit?"

"So, you admit it, you've been tailing me." He sat straighter with triumph, though his tone didn't sound entirely convinced. "You don't look like a fed."

He based this assumption solely on the size of my breasts and my hair color. I stifled the urge to roll my eyes. In my experience, men of this ilk were obnoxiously predictable.

"That's cause I'm not a fed."

"Then who do you work for?"

"Mr. Cataliades." Well, technically that day I was working for Ms. La Tour, but I was opting for quasi-honesty. Honesty that didn't inadvertently implicate his wife as a client of the firm.

He paled. "The supernatural lawyer? You work for the supe lawyer?" He began mentally running through a list of people who might want to hire Mr. C against him. There were … a lot. "Who would want to hire the supe lawyer against me?"

"I can't tell you who the client is."

His gaze turned cold, and the hand holding the gun twitched. "Says who?"

"I think the last thing you need is a murder charge."

He muttered a few choice words at this and wiped a hand across his forehead which was beading with sweat. His brain was an anxious mix of fear and desperation. He really couldn't bear the thought of a murder charge on top of potential embezzlement and commodities fraud charges.

This thought caused mine to come to an abrupt halt.

Well, well, well.

Turned out Walt Buhler's wife divorcing him was the least of his concerns. His accounts in the Gibraltar had nothing to do with hiding assets from her, and more to do with the money he'd been embezzling from Stromme and the profits he'd made from front running his own stocks in the commodities market. And while I wasn't entirely sure what 'front running' was, it was clear he was in over his head.

"You have my office tapped?" he asked.

"No, sir."

"My guard said you knew about certain… accounts."

"Lucky guess on my client's behalf," I said. He regarded me with open suspicion but opted to believe this, though I could tell he would definitely be checking his office for bugs later.

"Where are the rest of your things?" he said and gestured to me with the barrel of the gun.

"I only had my phone with me," I replied. Liar, liar pants on fire. I'd ditched my handbag earlier during the chase. "Will you please put that gun away? I don't like the way it's looking at me."

He tapped the muzzle absentmindedly against his thigh, lost in thought. "Will Bishop?"

"Pardon me?"

"Nicholas Benoit?"

"I don't know any of these names…"

"Who is your client? Mario Flores Garcia?"

"I can't tell you," I said, and folded my arms over my chest. We'd turned off the expressway before it crossed the Mississippi and we were now driving west along the river through a gray, bleak industrial area and heading toward the port. The Warehouse District. In my experience, armed men and warehouses typically ended in a bad time. At least for whomever the gun muzzle was pointed at. "Where are we going?" I asked uneasily.

"We're driving until you tell me what I need to know."

"Well, I hope you driver has a full tank of gas."

He sighed in resignation and finally tucked the gun away.

"How much?" he asked.

"For what?"

He leaned his head so close to me that I caught the stale waft of coffee on his breath. "To make any information you acquired…" he said slowly, significantly, "go away. Name your price."

I groaned and rested my head fully back against the seat. I seemed to be getting into the same scrapes and troubles over and over. And if I was being completely truthful with myself, it wasn't despite my best attempts. I had a habit of inviting this particular brand of trouble into my life. In human or supernatural form.

"You can't buy me," I said.

"Then the price you're thinking of isn't high enough." He enunciated the words with the calm, self-assured authority of a man who was used to getting everything his way.

"You misunderstand," I said. "You can't buy me, because I can't be bought. I know that might be an unusual concept for you. For a man effectively running a Ponzi scheme in his place of business."

"I am not running a Ponzi scheme. My work is legitimate."

"Okay, then for a man who is used to saying yes if it means more money coming his way."

"It's not a Ponzi scheme."

I laughed for the fact he took issue with that point and not that was I basically accused him of having no scruples.

"Is that why you sent your goon to rough me up on the street? To protect your not-Ponzi scheme?" I asked. "Look, I'm not clear on the details of how you're doing whatever it is you're doing. All I know is you're up a creek and the day you lose your paddle is coming sooner rather than later."

"You have nothing you can pin on me."

"And you can't do a damn thing with that gun."

"You think?" he challenged, though his assertion rang hollow. All bluff and no bluster. For his whole life, Walt Buhler was a man of reasonably dashing looks, charming demeanor, and success. I could tell he was used to always twisting things so that they would work his way. But he had a weak chin. Figuratively, of course. He had a chin and jawline that John Travolta would've envied back in his Grease days.

Despite that, Walt would do whatever it took to get what he wanted provided it didn't require hands dirty. Murder was a step too far. He thoughts were all wrapped up in how he could survive what came next unscathed with still a tidy sum in bank accounts.

"My employer knew exactly where I was going this afternoon and whom I was planning to visit," I said reminding him. I crossed my legs and folded my hands neatly on my lap. I offered him a patient smile. "The first place they'll look is to you."

•───── ─────•

By the time I trudged up my street, my poor blistered feet were bare and it was dark. My face stung like it was on fire thanks to the football tackle from the guard, my shoulders ached, and my knees from where Walt had thrown me out of the moving car were scraped. And my brain? Well, that felt exhausted and numb.

Though not numb enough to not recognize who was waiting for me outside the gates of the Belle Vue complex. Sometimes it sucked to be me.

"Good day at work?"

"Don't start," I snapped. I rolled my stiff shoulders. I'd walked what had to be over five miles to get home, with half of that distance spent walking in circles just trying to get out of the Warehouse District until I'd found a lone pedestrian kind enough to point me in the right direction.

Eric smirked, and I had a sudden urge to kick him in the shin. I'd had no phone, no purse, no way of getting home other than on foot. Not even my lousy house keys. The last thing I wanted to do right now was trade witty barbs with Eric, who current looked the diametric opposite of me: well rested, well fed and impeccably dressed.

I tossed my shoes over the wrought-iron fence and hiked up my skirt past my knees. I managed to climb halfway up the railing before strong arms grasped me around my waist, and Eric lifted, or rather floated, us over the fence together.

"That was unnecessary," I said.

"You're welcome," he replied. He drew me into a hug. At the moment, I didn't even have the energy to fight him off. I would accept comfort where I could find it. And vampires with their big ol' empty heads were always a comfort in this capacity. I sighed. What a day… I rested my forehead against his chest.

"Why are you hanging around outside my home like a bad smell?" My words were muffled against his shirt.

"I smell amazing, for your information. I was wondering if I could borrow you for an evening?"

He released me from our embrace and reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and retrieved a key.

"And what does that unlock?"

"An empty apartment," he replied. He dangled the key between us as if it were a carrot, and I were stupid enough to confuse myself for a donkey.

"You better explain fast, viking, otherwise you're gunning for a swift kick to the—"

"Lydia's apartment. I want to get up to speed on the investigation. I figure starting at the beginning might be wise."

"We don't even know if that is the beginning."

Eric followed me as I made my way down the stone path toward my duplex. "It's the beginning of law enforcement's involvement."

"Allegedly." This response earned me a delighted laugh from Eric, which I couldn't quite understand. Did I say something funny?

"Fine, I'll come," I said begrudgingly. "But first I need a shower and something to eat."

"Are you okay?" he asked. I slowed to a stop as his cool fingers took a hold of my chin. With a gentle tug, he coaxed me to face him. He appraised my facial injuries, tilting my head this way and that.

"I'm fine," I said. I pushed him off and continued to walk. "Nothing a little Neosporin and a stiff drink won't fix." I focused my attention on the path as we walked. Coarse tufts of moss and grass grew up between the pavers. The gardeners pressure washed the path monthly, yet the greenery continued to determinedly push its way through. I understood why they tried to keep it clean, but I had to wonder why go to such effort if it was just gonna come back again?

"Let me know if you need any help. I happen to have an in with Louisiana's royal vampire enforcer."

"Gimme a break," I muttered, which earned me a laugh.

Diantha was half-way through getting ready to hit the clubs when she let us into the apartment. Her hair was gelled into bright pink spikes like an anime character from one of those Japanese cartoons she always watched, but her makeup was only half done. One eye was thickly lined with kohl in a striking cat eye, the other still au natural.

"What happened to you?" she asked me.

"Entitled old businessman happened to me." I dumped my shoes in the woven shoe basket by the front door, though they were probably better off in the trash can.

Her eyes widened in an odd kind of vice-versa way. On her made-up eye, the expression appeared melodramatic; in the other, genuine. "You were working the Buhler case today?"

"It's done now. I can hang up my investigative hat on this one."

I walked straight to the kitchen, promptly poured myself a glass of soda and doused it with a liberal splash of gin. I grimaced with the first sip.

"You gonna invite the deader in?" Diantha asked.

"Oh!" I said with a jolt of surprise. "Eric, come on in. Sorry," I called.

Eric had to dip his head to walk through the entryway. He seemed to crowd the entire apartment simply by existing within it. But this unique Eric-like quality wasn't confined to my apartment, he had a habit of doing this everywhere he went.

He regarded the condo with an air of faint curiosity.

"Welcome to our humble abode," Diantha said. "There's only one rule: don't drink the tenants." She returned upstairs to finish getting ready, and I gestured for Eric to wait on the couch.

I wondered what he thought of my apartment. It was a far cry from the farmhouse. No more mismatched and worn ancestral furniture; no more creaky floorboards and poky rooms. Here, Diantha and I had managed to cobble together a sort of modern shabby-chic style in the open planned living and kitchen area, as well as upstairs in the bedrooms, though her room was mostly strewn with clothes. We relied heavily on thrift store and Ikea furniture as well as décor from Bed Bath and Beyond purchased with coupons. Our collective budget was tight, despite the apartment being subsidized thanks to Mr. C. I'd been directing every spare cent to paying down my remaining mortgage for the bar. Finances were an ongoing issue for me.

That thought was quickly blotted out by a sudden excited thrill. The drama of the afternoon's events had overshadowed what had happened that morning. Felipe de Castro's check had cleared. Finances were now, officially, no longer an ongoing issue for me. I was free of debt, baby!

"I have no True Blood to offer you, sorry," I said with a slight shrug. I hardly expected vampire guests these days. Eric's eyebrow rose at my sudden mood shift. My smile had turned beatific. I picked up the TV remote and handed it to him. "But feel free to watch something while I get ready."

He accepted it with a nod and sat down on the sofa.

I skipped up the stairs two at a time and kicked Diantha out of the bathroom long enough for me to take a quick shower. I carefully scrubbed at the dried patches of blood where I'd scraped the knees but was pleased to discover there was no scrape left to be seen. Thalia's blood still at work, I take it. In fact, after my hot shower my shoulder felt right as rain also. I rubbed some ointment into my cheek which was still a little red but no worse for wear.

I changed into loose denim cut-offs shorts and a cotton t-shirt, then pulled my blow-dried hair up into a ponytail. I was ready for something casual and comfy after hiking in my pinchy business suit all evening.

The TV was going when I came back downstairs, and I reheated some dinner Diantha had made the night before. I sat down on the couch next to Eric with my meal and drink.

"What's that?" he asked, wrinkling his nose.

"Diantha's cooking," I said, lifting the bowl of chicken casserole closer to his face. He leaned back a little. "She's on a French cuisine kick."

"There's a lot of garlic."

"It's perfect," I said with a grin, and took a bite. "What are you watching?"

"X-Files."

I groaned a little. "Diantha's been bugging me to watch this. She has all the DVDs."

"It's the first episode." He picked up the remote and restarted the episode, though I protested. But soon enough I (reluctantly) was sucked in.

"Who do you think we are?" Eric asked after a while. "Mulder or Scully?"

It was a scene where the iconic duo was stranded in the pouring rain, arguing over whether or not they'd been abducted aliens.

"Neither," I said with a snort. Scully was yelling about the scientific impossibility of 'losing time' to Mulder, who was gleeful at the idea of close encounters of the third kind. "She's too brainy and cool-headed to be me… or you."

"You certainly possess all the physical attributes for a leading lady," Eric said. His eyes raked over me, and I kicked him in the calf.

"Well, there's no way you're Mulder. You're a workplace sexual harassment suit waiting to happen."

He flashed a caddish smile my way, which was quite a bit like Mulder, to be honest. I finished the rest of my drink and stretched my legs out. My feet weren't even throbbing anymore. And my face felt a lot better now, though I was hesitant to touch it after rubbing ointment on it after my shower. We left after the first episode ended.

"I assume you have transport," I said when we got outside. Eric lifted his hand and jangled his keys. He pressed the button on the fob and car lights flashed across the street.

"Oh, you've got to be kidding me…"

"You think I'd get rid of my baby?" he crooned. He rubbed a loving hand across the hood of the car as I slid into the passenger seat of the Corvette. The smell of conditioned leather mixed with the faint scent of motor oil sent me reeling back in time. I had many associations with this car, some good, some bad.

The corvette pulled out with a predictable roar, and I directed Eric into the Central Business District for a quick errand. The traffic had picked once more; the sidewalks buzzing with pedestrians. New Orleans was in peak tourist season. Eric cursed in his native tongue after the second taxi cut us off through mid-town. He waited at the curb, car idling, as I jogged over to the nature strip and retrieved my purse from the shrub where I'd dropped it during the foot chase earlier that day.

"Should I ask?" Eric said, with a speculative raise of his brow toward my purse. I practically fell back into the car. Geez, I forgotten how low those damn bucket seats were.

"No," I answered.

I opened my purse and retrieved the notepad where I'd written all the details from earlier in the afternoon. Relief flooded through me. I half-expected Walt's burly thug to have doubled back and found it. "I need your phone," I told Eric, picking it up from the console. It was a newer version of my iPhone, but it unlocked just the same. The phone didn't even have a password. Brave, I thought. Though I supposed after the last two weeks Eric had endured, he had nothing left to hide.

I dialled the office and through to Ms. LaTour's line. It was nine-thirty on a Friday night, Wendy LaTour would be long gone, but associates would still be plugging away. I left a vague message on her line, telling her that I didn't have a phone and that the case I was working had taken an unexpected direction, but I had all the details I needed for it to proceed. Hopefully that was enough info until I went in the next morning. I didn't make a habit of working weekends, but I was willing to, just to get this case off my desk…

"What?" I asked when I hung up. Eric had been staring at me and not at the road.

"It's interesting to see you at work."

I narrowed my eyes. "Are you making fun of me?"

"I would never." His tone conveyed the exact opposite of his words.

"I'm not sure how I feel about you living in the same city as me."

He grinned. "A lot harder to avoid me here than when you were in Bon Temps."

"Avoid you, Eric? Why would I ever want to do that?" I said, heaping on the sarcasm.

"You're right. You can't resist my charm."

"Believe me, resisting your charm is right at the top of my to-do list, just below 'buy more garlic'."

I hated how gratifying I found his rumbling laughter.