release herself. I wondered if she’d influenced the people who made Lincolns. I felt all around the trunk, at least the parts I could reach, and I did feel a latch release, maybe; there was a place where wires were sticking into the trunk. But whatever handle they’d been attached to had been clipped off.

I tried pulling, I tried yanking to the left or right. Damn it, this just wasn’t right. I almost went nuts, there in that trunk. The means of escape was in there with me, and I couldn’t make it work. My fingertips went over and over the wires, but to no purpose.

The mechanism had been disabled.

I tried real hard to figure out how that could have happened. I am ashamed to confess, I wondered if somehow Eric knew I’d be shut in the trunk, and this was his way of saying, “That’s what you get for preferring Bill.” But I just couldn’t believe that. Eric sure had some big blank moral blind spots, but I didn’t think he’d do that to me. After all, he hadn’t reached his stated goal of having me, which was the nicest way I could put it to myself.

Since I had nothing else to do but think, which didn’t take up extra oxygen, as far as I knew, I considered the car’s previous owner. It occurred to me that Eric’s friend had pointed out a car that would be easy to steal; a car belonging to someone who was sure to be out late at night, someone who could afford a fine car, someone whose trunk would hold the litter of cigarette papers, powder, and Baggies.

Eric had liberated the Lincoln from a drug dealer, I was willing to bet. And that drug dealer had disabled the inner trunk release for reasons I didn’t even want to think about too closely.

Oh, give me a break, I thought indignantly. (It was easy just then to forget the many breaks I’d had during the day.) Unless I got a final break, and got out of this trunk before Bill awoke, none of the others would exactly count.

It was a Sunday, and very close to Christmas, so the garage was silent. Maybe some people had gone home for the holidays, and the legislators had gone home to their constituency, and the other people were busy doing . . . Christmas, Sunday stuff. I heard one car leave while I lay there, and then I heard voices after a time; two people getting off the elevator. I screamed, and banged on the trunk lid, but the sound was swallowed up in the starting of a big engine. I quieted immediately, frightened of using more air than I could afford.

I’ll tell you, time spent in the nearly pitch-black dark, in a confined space, waiting for something to happen—that’s pretty awful time. I didn’t have a watch on; I would have had to have one with those hands that light up, anyway. I never fell asleep, but I drifted into an odd state of suspension. This was mostly due to the cold, I expect. Even with the quilted jacket and the blanket, it was very cold in the trunk. Still, cold, unmoving, dark, silent. My mind drifted.

Then I was terrified.

Bill was moving. He stirred, made a pain noise. Then his body seemed to go tense. I knew he had smelled me.

“Bill,” I said hoarsely, my lips almost too stiff with cold to move. “Bill, it’s me, Sookie. Bill, are you okay? There’s some bottled blood in here. Drink itnow .”

He struck.

In his hunger, he made no attempt to spare me anything, and it hurt like the six shades of hell.

“Bill, it’s me,” I said, starting to cry. “Bill, it’s me. Don’t do this, honey. Bill, it’s Sookie. There’s TrueBlood in here.”

But he didn’t stop. I kept talking, and he kept sucking, and I was becoming even colder, and very weak. His arms were clamping me to him, and struggling was no use, it would only excite him more. His leg was slung over my legs.

“Bill,” I whispered, thinking it was already maybe too late. With the little strength I had left, I pinched his ear with the fingers of my right hand. “Please listen, Bill.”

“Ow,” he said. His voice sounded rough; his throat was sore. He had stopped taking blood. Now another need was on him, one closely related to feeding. His hands pulled down my sweatpants, and after a lot of fumbling and rearranging and contorting, he