The notebook remained pinned closely to Sookie's side, and her stomach turned to think of how tightly she was tripping it, like a lifeline, the single source of truth to hold onto. Anyone could tell that the person who had pieced the scrapbook together was obsessed. Beyond reason. And for all that she tried, Sookie couldn't imagine Mitchell being the one to do it, refused to believe that she'd been a poor enough judge of character in that respect— but questioning his involvement in the massacre itself seemed like the very first thing to do. The timing was right. The reasons for anger were there, however thin they seemed when placed against the death of so many innocent people. She swallowed thickly, throat feeling dry, as she shifted her weight from one foot to the other, waiting a few seconds, as though she might be able to communicate her thoughts through a look alone, as though Mitchell would figure it out, confess just in time.

(Just in time? No, it was... a bit late for that, wasn't it?)

Her heel dug into the floor as Sookie took a shaky breath, willing her suspicions to be wrong. It wouldn't be the first time she'd leapt to conclusions, it wouldn't be the first time she was quick to assume. "Does the Boxcar 20 Massacre mean anything to you?" she asked, words quavering even more than the slow exhale that followed.