The thing was, it didn't sound like a lie. None of it sounded like a lie. No doubt that Eric Northman had also killed countless people in his time, that he'd made a name for himself, a sheriff among a group of creatures already so strong and terrifying in their own right. But there wasn't that edge to his voice, a sickening warmth that remained against her skin. There wasn't any of that to his words. And Bill had only ever expressed regret, even upon mentioning the way that he yearned for blood itself, the poor substitute that Tru Blood had been. Neither of them had ever summoned up such detail, and Sookie found herself unable to tear away for a single word, just watching the color change in Mitchell's eyes, the curve of his lips, with a disbelief that spread through her like ice.

But she had a line. And he'd crossed it. And it didn't take a moment's hesitation after his last admission before Sookie slapped him across the face, without a word, without warning, though she felt her breath immediately break after. Gaze falling, she turned around, her steps measured, regular in pace, before bending down to pick up the fallen scrapbook, letting it hang from her hand.

Casting a look over her shoulder, her lips pressed in a thin before she tossed it lightly on the couch. "That's yours," she said. "You decide how you want to tell the others. But don't take too long."

Because, she thought to herself as she stepped out the door, if he decided to keep silent about this with George, with Nina, with Annie even now, well. Sookie wasn't sure that she could do the same.