Shaking her head, Sookie made her way over to the couch, sitting herself down, the scrapbook placed on her lap as she pressed her palms to her temples, refusing to look at him, weeding through as many details as she could and weaving them together as best as she knew how. "Jesus," she breathed, voice struck with realization. "That was when you started acting weird, Mitchell. When you started gettin' all jumpy, and—" A sigh passed through her lips, sharp and decisive. Maybe she was being unfair, maybe Bill's folder just had her suspicions leaping through the roof. Yet it didn't seem to matter which direction her thoughts headed in; everything was set, aligned, hinted at the likelihood of Mitchell's involvement.

You weren't killed, she wanted to say. Vampires in neighboring cities weren't all killed.

"If it wasn't a vampire, why are you actin' so nervous right now?" she asked, glancing up at him again, before she thumbed through the scrapbook again, feeling nauseated at the descriptions written within, defensive, worried. "The blast didn't kill all vampires. You really tellin' me that no one would've wanted to avenge them? Back in Bon Temps, they made a vampire out of an innocent seventeen-year-old, made Bill sire her or whatever, because he'd staked a vampire that was about to kill me. Doesn't seem like all vampires would let a whole city of them die without fighting back."