"I'll compensate you for your time," she looked at the blinds that looked out upon the scene of the murder. One had been broken, leaned on another. "The house looks out on the yard," Marie turned back, and she shrunk away, "did you see anything…Miss?"

"Sharon," she returned; baggy eyes went to ceiling.

"Pennycuff was on the mailbox," she said, and the woman nodded vigorously. The actual name was Slaven, she mused. "So, there was a lot of excitement last night."

"I saw nothing," she looked away to a cabinet and shook, as if in a cold breeze. The smile she painted across her face was broad, false teeth shifted, and she closed her mouth. "I was at Country Cheer Diner," she nodded to herself, "and…you're trespassing." Sharon squinted at her, for there was something familiar about the young woman.

"Or, you looked out the window, when you heard your neighbors fighting."

"I…don't know—"

"You crawled under the house," she looked at the pair of dirty jeans, and the woman jerked, "probably, so the Sheriff wouldn't find you. Between the drugs, illegal squatting, and other activities, he would arrest you."

"I want nothing to do with a feud between the McWhorters and Van Lears," she pressed against the stove, like a rabbit who found a fox had cornered them.

"So, you saw Jacob Van Lear?" she asked as if the answer was self-evident.

"I don't want trouble," Sharon looked at the door, and then back at the drawer.

"I don't want to cause trouble. There was a murder last night, and I mean to figure it out," she relaxed, which caused Sharon to relax. "There is no need to drag your name into it, and I want to keep the police out of it."

She looked at Marie, rabbit turned to fox, "There is something in it for me?"

"Of course," a five appeared in her hand, "I don't ask for much, I'm here for the story."

"That won't get you much," she sighed, "so, yes, I was here last night." There were more shameful things she had done for a five.

"Did you see a Van Lear, Jacob?" she took in her every movement.

"I saw nothing—"

A twenty appeared in Marie's hand, "Did you see Jacob Van Lear kill Jesse and Seth?"

"I saw him," she looked at the money, "but I didn't see anyone get shot." Sharon saw her scowl, "I heard some gunfire, so I looked, but I saw no one. There were more shots, then a woman crying, and they were dead in the yard."

"So, you didn't actually see the murderer," she set the money beside her.

"No," Sharon picked up the money.

"Anything you'd like to add?"

"When I heard the sirens, I hid under the house."

Marie stepped towards the door, paused, "Here is a hundred…don't spend it on heroin." The bill was her last bit of folding money, but pity had won over good sense.

"Heroin isn't my bag," Sharon snatched up the money with a grin, false teeth clicked. She drew close to hug her, froze, "La Voison."

"What?" she blinked at the tremor of fear.

"Hill Seer," she trembled, tears rose, "gets away me!"

"Excuse me—"

"GET OUT," Sharon shrieked, "accursed!"

Marie blushed, struck by the hate fed by terror, "I guess kindness never goes unpunished." Out of the trailer she stepped, though considered taking the hundred back. It was better to leave before Rutger showed up, she thought.

"Leave," Sharon slammed the door. Everyone of Hemlock Hurst knew the La Voison family. Death followed them.

Back in the graveyard soup of Owl Sticks, she felt the terrified hate of Sharon lift. Beside the murder scene tape, the well-dressed man looked at her, under a trilby hat. The slate, three-piece suit matched the hat, tie a malachite-green. Thick hands adjusted cuff links, which were covered in scars. Although his face was like carved stone, a slight smile chipped one side of thin lips up. Marie tried to see his eyes, but they were hidden, figures stood behind him to a chorus of curses.

She looked away from the man, who Rutger had reacted so strongly last night. Tim waited for her, and he cast a disgusted glance at the man. Desperate pleas splashed against her back, but she refused to look.

"Did you learn anything?" he asked, but clover-green eyes slid past her to the well-dressed man.

"Yes," she kept her body relaxed. "Keep your eyes on me," Marie said, evenly, "who is that man?"

"Mister Barnett," Tim said, but he grimaced, "he is one of the Van Lear people."

"I don't know," she nodded. "Men don't get scars on their knuckles from polite conversation."

"People are scared of him, and the Sheriff wants to run him out of town."

"I say he is doing what I'm doing," she looked back, but the man was gone. "No matter," Marie pulled the curls stuck to her neck, "I need to find more witnesses, or at least, learn about the tensions between the families."

"Most people won't speak to you about them."

"I would like to talk to Jacob Van Lear," she mused, but failed to recall him. He was among the old families, so had nothing to do with a La Voison. "He seems to be a part of this," she nodded, "and it looks bad, if he came to his ex-girlfriend's house, and people ended up dead. There has to be somebody that saw him, or it's just a falsehood." She looked at the murder scene tape, "Either way, I want as much as I can get my hands on: one sided stories are flat."

"Is all you want is the story," he frowned. I would hate to have her after me, Tim thought.

"Oh, I'll make sure the truth comes out," she smiled, "and what is done in the dark will be burned away in the light."

"I'll try to help," he said, but shuffled, "though I will be little help."

"You're my knight in shining armor," she said to see him blush.

Red crept up his face, but Tim turned to the approaching sedan. Mister Barnett drove up beside them, until Marie stood next to the back, driver side window.

The glass rolled down, and a set of eyes like a winter morning found Marie. "My mother, Diana," she said in a polite yet cold tone, "wants to speak to you, Marie La Voison."