Read Online Hoodoo Woman (Roxie Mathis Book 3) by Sonya Clark - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Sonya Clark
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mother thought I was. Going back to the lake house and drowning in Daniel’s liquor supply sounded like a good idea.
Desperate to think about anything else, I surveyed the room. Most of the furniture had been updated, the main pieces being the plush microfiber couch on which I sat and the recliner facing the big flat screen TV. His grandmother’s old rocking chair still sat in one corner, flanked by family photos on the walls. A bookcase full of mystery novels dominated the wall opposite the windows. The case was new, as were many of the books, but there were titles I recognized him having years ago. Still a Tony Hillerman fan, as well as Michael Connelly and Robert Crais. Dennis Lehane had been added, and an author he had in common with Daniel, Alan Furst, who wrote World War Two spy novels set in Europe. Not the traditional mysteries and police procedurals Ray had always liked but I could see them being a good fit.
Feeling on somewhat firmer footing emotionally, I only stiffened a little when Ray returned. He wore jeans and an untucked red and black plaid flannel shirt, hair still damp and mussed from being towel-dried. His feet were bare and he was still buttoning the shirt as he entered the room.
“The files are in the office,” he said, jerking his head for me to follow.
I did. The rooms were small, it being an older house, but there were four bedrooms. The one on the ground floor had been converted into an office almost as soon as he moved in. Ray preferred dark paint to the paneling he’d removed himself, choosing blues and grays with white trim. A memory of teasing him about his good taste popped into my head. I pushed it away. The room had the same color scheme but a newer, bigger desk and desktop computer with a large monitor. Three wooden filing cabinets took up most of one wall. Where a map of the county used to be was a white board, Britney Parker’s name emblazoned at the top in Ray’s careful script. I would have read all the various notes on the board but the contents of the last wall drew my attention.
It was a bookcase, smaller than the one in the living room, nearly full. The books were all metaphysical titles. Not fiction, either. Books on witchcraft, hoodoo and voodoo, ghosts, tarot, various other supernatural subjects. I recognized almost all the titles. Some of them, if I wasn’t mistaken, used to belong to me.
Ray noticed what I was staring at. Scratching the stubble on his jaw, he said, “Yeah, that stack there.” He pointed at the books I was eyeing. “Those are ones you left behind. Take ‘em back if you want.”
A couple of them were Wicca primers from when I thought that might be a place for me. Another pair were tarot books. The one on top, wrapped in a tied leather cord, was a journal. One of my ill-fated attempts to keep a diary, book of shadows, spell book, whatever. All of the above.
“I threw that stuff in the trash.”
“I got it out,” he said. “You were pretty upset that night. I thought you might want them back. That you might come back for them. But you left before.” He stopped abruptly. “Anyway, your letter made it clear you were never coming back and we were through. So I stuck them in a corner and left ‘em.”
I burned with shame thinking about that letter, for more reasons than one. Kneeling, I retrieved the books and shoved the journal in my messenger bag. Eyes on the carpet I said, “I always hated that I couldn’t be someone you’d be proud to be seen with. I know you were ashamed of me.”
Ray dropped to the floor beside me, taking my hands. “I was never ashamed of you. God, don’t ever think that, baby.”
“You never wanted anyone to know.”
“You were nineteen.” He brushed my hair from my face. “I was ashamed of myself for getting involved with a girl so much younger.”
“You aren’t that much older than me.”
“It feels that way now but I was an adult and you were barely out of high school. It makes a difference.” He
Desperate to think about anything else, I surveyed the room. Most of the furniture had been updated, the main pieces being the plush microfiber couch on which I sat and the recliner facing the big flat screen TV. His grandmother’s old rocking chair still sat in one corner, flanked by family photos on the walls. A bookcase full of mystery novels dominated the wall opposite the windows. The case was new, as were many of the books, but there were titles I recognized him having years ago. Still a Tony Hillerman fan, as well as Michael Connelly and Robert Crais. Dennis Lehane had been added, and an author he had in common with Daniel, Alan Furst, who wrote World War Two spy novels set in Europe. Not the traditional mysteries and police procedurals Ray had always liked but I could see them being a good fit.
Feeling on somewhat firmer footing emotionally, I only stiffened a little when Ray returned. He wore jeans and an untucked red and black plaid flannel shirt, hair still damp and mussed from being towel-dried. His feet were bare and he was still buttoning the shirt as he entered the room.
“The files are in the office,” he said, jerking his head for me to follow.
I did. The rooms were small, it being an older house, but there were four bedrooms. The one on the ground floor had been converted into an office almost as soon as he moved in. Ray preferred dark paint to the paneling he’d removed himself, choosing blues and grays with white trim. A memory of teasing him about his good taste popped into my head. I pushed it away. The room had the same color scheme but a newer, bigger desk and desktop computer with a large monitor. Three wooden filing cabinets took up most of one wall. Where a map of the county used to be was a white board, Britney Parker’s name emblazoned at the top in Ray’s careful script. I would have read all the various notes on the board but the contents of the last wall drew my attention.
It was a bookcase, smaller than the one in the living room, nearly full. The books were all metaphysical titles. Not fiction, either. Books on witchcraft, hoodoo and voodoo, ghosts, tarot, various other supernatural subjects. I recognized almost all the titles. Some of them, if I wasn’t mistaken, used to belong to me.
Ray noticed what I was staring at. Scratching the stubble on his jaw, he said, “Yeah, that stack there.” He pointed at the books I was eyeing. “Those are ones you left behind. Take ‘em back if you want.”
A couple of them were Wicca primers from when I thought that might be a place for me. Another pair were tarot books. The one on top, wrapped in a tied leather cord, was a journal. One of my ill-fated attempts to keep a diary, book of shadows, spell book, whatever. All of the above.
“I threw that stuff in the trash.”
“I got it out,” he said. “You were pretty upset that night. I thought you might want them back. That you might come back for them. But you left before.” He stopped abruptly. “Anyway, your letter made it clear you were never coming back and we were through. So I stuck them in a corner and left ‘em.”
I burned with shame thinking about that letter, for more reasons than one. Kneeling, I retrieved the books and shoved the journal in my messenger bag. Eyes on the carpet I said, “I always hated that I couldn’t be someone you’d be proud to be seen with. I know you were ashamed of me.”
Ray dropped to the floor beside me, taking my hands. “I was never ashamed of you. God, don’t ever think that, baby.”
“You never wanted anyone to know.”
“You were nineteen.” He brushed my hair from my face. “I was ashamed of myself for getting involved with a girl so much younger.”
“You aren’t that much older than me.”
“It feels that way now but I was an adult and you were barely out of high school. It makes a difference.” He
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