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“Sure,” I said. “Don’t eat any garlic.” And I turned away from her to wipe down the table.

Once I was certain she was out of the room, I swung around to carry two empty beer mugs to the bar, and when I turned back, Bill was standing there. I gave a gasp of surprise. Bill has dark brown hair and of course the whitest skin you can imagine. His eyes are as dark as his hair. Right at the moment, those eyes were fixed on mine.

“Why did she talk to you?” he asked.

“Wanted to know the way to the bathroom.”

He cocked an eyebrow, glancing up at the sign.

“She just wanted to take my measure,” I said. “At least, that’s my guess.” I felt oddly comfortable with Bill at that moment, no matter what had passed between us.

“Did you scare her?”

“I didn’t try to.”

“Did you scare her?” he asked again in a sterner voice. But he smiled at me.

“No,” I said. “Did you want me to?”

He shook his head in mock disgust. “Are you jealous?”

“Yes.” Honesty was always safest. “I hate her skinny thighs and her elitist attitude. I hope she’s a dreadful bitch who makes you so miserable that you howl when you remember me.”

“Good,” said Bill. “That’s good to hear.” He gave me a brush of lips on my cheek. At the touch of his cool flesh, I shivered, remembering. He did, too. I saw the heat flare in his eyes, the fangs begin to run out. Then Catfish Hunter yelled to me to stir my stumps and bring him another bourbon and Coke, and I walked away from my first lover.

It had been a long, long day, not only from a physical-energy-expended measurement, but also from an emotional-depths-plumbed point of view. When I let myself into my brother’s house, there were giggles and squeakings coming from his bedroom, and I deduced Jason was consoling himself in the usual way. Jason might be upset that his new community suspected him of a foul crime, but he was not so upset that it affected his libido.

I spent as brief a time in the bathroom as I could and went into the guest room, shutting the door firmly behind me. Tonight the couch looked a lot more inviting than it had the evening before. As I curled up on my side and pulled the quilt over me, I realized that the woman spending the night with my brother was a shifter; I could feel it in the faint pulsing redness of her brain.

I hoped she was Crystal Norris. I hoped Jason had somehow persuaded the girl that he had nothing to do with the shootings. If Jason wanted to compound his troubles, the best way possible would be to cheat on Crystal, the woman he’d chosen from the werepanther community. And surely even Jason wasn’t that stupid. Surely.

He wasn’t. I met Crystal in the kitchen the next morning after ten o’clock. Jason was long gone, since he had to be at work by seven forty-five. I was drinking my first mug of coffee when Crystal stumbled in, wearing one of Jason’s shirts, her face blurry with sleep.

Crystal was not my favorite person, and I was not hers, but she said, “Morning” civilly enough. I agreed that it was morning, and I got out a mug for her. She grimaced and got out a glass, filling it with ice and then Coca-Cola. I shuddered.

“How’s your uncle?” I asked, when she seemed conscious.

“He’s doing better,” she said. “You ought to go see him. He liked having you visit.”

“I guess you’re sure Jason didn’t shoot him.”

“I am,” she said briefly. “I didn’t want to talk to him at first, but once he got me on the phone, he just talked his way out of me suspecting him.”

I wanted to ask her if the other inhabitants of Hotshot were willing to give Jason the benefit of the doubt, but I hated to bring up a touchy subject.

I thought of what I had to do today: I had to go get enough clothes, some sheets and blankets, and some kitchen gear from the house, and get those things installed in Sam’s duplex.

Moving into a small, furnished place was a perfect solution to my housing problem. I had forgotten Sam owned several small houses on Berry Street, three of them duplexes. He worked on them himself, though sometimes he hired JB du Rone, a