Free Poison Tongue by Nash Summers Page A

me, then flopped down on the sofa and spread his long arms across the back of it. After another skeptical look, he closed his eyes. Coin jumped up on the sofa and lay down on his lap.
    When I was sure he was no longer watching me through his lashes, I slung my bag back over my shoulder. Monroe said nothing as I padded off down the hallway, wandering in and out of the rooms on his main floor.
    I hid one of the hoodoo bags in the back of the pantry behind an ancient rolling pin with more layers of dust than I had layers of skin. Another I hid on the top of the doorframe to the back door.
    When it was time to climb to the second story, I found myself clutching the staircase railing. There was something unsettling about the long, dark shadows the trees from the swamp cast against the wooden walls and floorboards through the windows. The glass was foggy and old, cracked in some places. Dreary curtains hung lifelessly around a window at the top of the staircase. Unable to help myself as I walked past, I glanced outside at the swamp. Its gray, murky waters remained still, as though they were made of glass.
    I forced myself away from the window, away from the view of the swamp, and down the narrow hallway. The upper level of the house was less finished than the bottom. There were no decorations and little furniture. Dust danced in the empty room to the right. The fragrance of fresh soap and disinfectant filled the room to the left.
    At the end of the hallway, a door sat open. I walked to it, peered inside. A simple wooden bed frame sat pressed against the far wall. A large wardrobe in the corner. A large stack of books in the center of the floor. Car magazines and books as thick as encyclopedias with pictures of cars on the covers.
    I knelt next to Monroe’s bed. For some reason the action made me frown. Hiding hoodoo bags around Monroe’s house was clinical. And yet, crouching next to his bed, looking at the rumpled sheets that he and Saddie had likely been in minutes ago….
    The small bag felt electric in my hand. I lifted the corner of the mattress and shoved it underneath, then left the room swiftly and walked back down the hallway. I forced myself not to think about the sheets on Monroe Poirier’s bed.
    He was just how I’d left him, eyes closed, relaxed, legs spread as he leaned back on the sofa. Coin found his stuffed toy in the corner of the room more entertaining now. It squeaked as he gnawed on it.
    “I’m finished,” I said.
    Monroe opened his eyes. Again, there was that flicker. It was golden, but not in color. Something in his eyes—something about his soul—so badly wanted to shine.
    When he stood he reached out and brushed against my neck. I fought against the racing of my heart. Hearts were liars. Hearts couldn’t be trusted, especially not when men like Monroe Poirier were around.
    “You have dust on your skin,” he said quietly, looking me over.
    “You have dust in your house.”
    “It’s an old house. Are you gonna tell me what you were doing?”
    “No.”
    Something caught his eye. He reached his hand up and gently flicked one of the small hoops in my ear.
    “You have golden hoops all up your ear.” He wasn’t talking to me. He was talking to himself as though I was but a figment presented before him.
    His gaze traveled from my ear, down my neck, to the amulet I wore. When he reached out and touched it, something lit inside me. I wanted to shove him away. I wanted him to tangle the necklace around his hand until it bit into my skin, and pull me closer by my chain.
    When our eyes met, he looked like he’d been thinking the same thing.
    I stepped back and his hand fell.
    He sighed heavily, his large shoulders slouching. He looked like a defeated man. He was a defeated man. “I wish you wouldn’t look at me like that,” he said.
    “Will you tell me about your family?” I had no right to ask, but I asked anyway.
    Monroe motioned for me to sit on the sofa. He took the seat on the other end but