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I had plenty to do, since some people were still eating supper (and some were drinking it), and some regulars were drifting in after eating at home. Holly was equally busy, and when one of the men who worked for the phone company spilled his beer on the floor, she had to go get the mop and bucket. She was running behind on her tables when the door opened. I saw her putting Sid Matt Lancaster’s order in front of him, with her back to the door. So she missed the next entrance, but I didn’t. The young man Sam had hired to bus the tables during our busy hour was occupied with clearing two tables pulled together that had held a large party of parish workers, and so I was clearing off the Bellefleurs’ table. Andy was chatting with Sam while he waited for Portia, who’d visited the ladies’ room. I’d just pocketed my tip, which was fifteen percent of the bill to the penny. The Bellefleur tipping habits had improved—slightly—with the Bellefleur fortunes. I glanced up when the door was held open long enough for a cold gust of air to chill me.

The woman coming in was tall and so slim and broad-shouldered that I checked her chest, just to be sure I’d registered her gender correctly. Her hair was short and thick and brown, and she was wearing absolutely no makeup. There was a man with her, but I didn’t see him until she stepped to one side. He was no slouch in the size department himself, and his tight T-shirt revealed arms more developed than any I’d ever seen. Hours in the gym; no, years in the gym. His chestnut hair trailed down to his shoulders in tight curls, and his beard and mustache were perceptibly redder. Neither of the two wore coats, though it was definitely coat weather. The newcomers walked over to me.

“Where’s the owner?” the woman asked.

“Sam. He’s behind the bar,” I said, looking down as soon as I could and wiping the table all over again. The man had looked at me curiously; that was normal. As they brushed past me, I saw that he carried some posters under his arm and a staple gun. He’d stuck his hand through a roll of masking tape, so it bounced on his left wrist.

I glanced over at Holly. She’d frozen, the cup of coffee in her hand halfway down on its way to Sid Matt Lancaster’s placemat. The old lawyer looked up at her, followed her stare to the couple making their way between the tables to the bar. Merlotte’s, which had been on the quiet and peaceful side, was suddenly awash in tension. Holly set down the cup without burning Mr. Lancaster and spun on her heel, going through the swinging door to the kitchen at warp speed.

I didn’t need any more confirmation on the identity of the woman.

The two reached Sam and began a low-voiced conversation with him, with Andy listening in just because he was in the vicinity. I passed by on my way to take the dirty dishes to the hatch, and I heard the woman say (in a deep, alto voice) “. . . put up these posters in town, just in case anyone spots him.”

This was Hallow, the witch whose pursuit of Eric had caused such an upset. She, or a member of her coven, was probably the murderer of Adabelle Yancy. This was the woman who might have taken my brother, Jason. My head began pounding as if there were a little demon inside trying to break out with a hammer.

No wonder Holly was in such a state and didn’t want Hallow to glimpse her. She’d been to Hallow’s little meeting in Shreveport, and her coven had rejected Hallow’s invitation.

“Of course,” Sam said. “Put up one on this wall.” He indicated a blank spot by the door that led back to the bathrooms and his office.

Holly stuck her head out the kitchen door, glimpsed Hallow, ducked back in. Hallow’s eyes flicked over to the door, but not in time to glimpse Holly, I hoped.

I thought of jumping Hallow, beating on her until she told me what I wanted to know about my brother. That was what the pounding in my head was urging me to do—initiate action, any action. But I had a streak of common sense, and luckily for me it came to the fore. Hallow was big, and she had a sidekick who could crush me—plus, Kevin