Louis already knows about other stuff. Most of the other stuff, anyway. Mostly it's Lestat's tour, and some of it's writing little things he'd let fall by the wayside during the tail end of his mortal life. The rest, cloudy-eyed sacrifices left in his hotel rooms, a hundred dead roses preserved in glass, the severed head of the pundit who suggested he was dying of AIDS— that's his business. Louis doesn't need to know.

'Anything you're not sure about.'

Daniel doesn't know, exactly, what to look for. It's too vague, and it's too big for him to go after. He'll need a lot more time and perspective.