"You, my dear, have the soul of a writer."
I cringed before glancing at him with a scowl. "You mean the soul of a poet?"
"No. God, no. You're the furthest thing from a poet. Whereas a poem has the capability of designing a truth endowed with ribbo...
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GULTY UNTIL PROVEN INNOCENT
The humidity was terrible; that was one of the main thoughts that my brain kept reverting towards as I was escorted into the back of a police cab. The air hung thick, heavy against my limbs and choking my pores inside a sweaty film, frizzing my hair into an intangible mess of textured hysteria. You could smell the coming rain like a psychic's prediction, a low storm rubbing off the edges of the bayou and sifting past drifting willows. The sky above us was a living creature, rapid gasps as bloated clouds turned and rolled over with anguish. A storm was coming, that much was certain. The question on my mind was exactly how bad it was going to be.
❍
The head detective of the Bon Temp's police department walked in the interrogation room with a thick manila envelope before he slammed it hard against the lower right corner of his desk. He took a step back, surveying his work with a repulsed frown and picking up the squashed cockroach with just his fingers, tossing it carelessly in the wastebasket. He wiped off any lingering goo left on his hand with the side of his khaki pants, shaking his head like the simple existence of such an insect was a grave, personal offense. "Goddamn roaches. Fuckin' made fake blood for a couple vampers, but still can't do a single goddamn thing 'bout these goddamn roaches." He snorted with disgust. "This country's goin' to Hell, I tell ya."
Andy Bellefleur was a man under six foot, though weighing at least two hundred pounds. The top of his head was bald, what little hair that remained were migrating around the sides and behind his ears, thinning and losing pigment. He had a permanent scowl that added at least an extra five years to his overall appearance, muddy brown eyes narrowed and accusatory of some crime he wasn't even sure of, staring down culprits who weren't there. I've been told he was as much of a staple to this town as the old timers who sold the same low-grade moonshine for generations down by the market, his family established in the same year that Louisiana became an official state of America, and having never left since.
I tried to imagine what I might've looked like to him. A flashy northerner, an invader that represented all the madness in this country, who came to corrupt his small piece of paradise. The image of a modern age, a direct contrast to the years that he wished they all still lived in, that Bon Temps as a community tried restlessly to keep alive.
He made a few noises from deep in his throat as he collected himself and lowered into the wide leather desk chair across from me. He closed his fingers together over his barrel chest, leaning back so far that I was nervous the chair might collapse from under him. "Cassandra Sinclair," he mused, flipping over the manila envelope he used to kill the cockroach so its stain was hidden. "You moved in about, uh, what was it..." he trailed off with his eyebrows knitted together.
"Two years, give or take." I filled in, crossing my ankles. I tried to smile, but it felt strained and he looked at me in a way that insinuated he saw right through it.
