The Witch's Stone Read Online Free Page B

end the investigators found Agie as eccentric as ever, but of sound mind. That was it for James, though. She swore he would never be allowed into her home again."
    James Douglas sounded like a real piece of work.
    “And poor Caid,” Joan continued. “It’s a wonder he’s turned out as well as he has with that man for a father. Especially, after the trouble he’d fallen into.”
    “Oh?” Hillary did not want to care, but her interest perked in spite of herself.
    “Caid was a troubled lad and lived a wild life. Drinking, drugs, and running with a very rough crowd. He nearly killed himself in a car accident a few years back, broke his leg badly and wound up in a clinic to get off the drink. I’m pleased to see him doing so well for himself."
    Hillary nodded and sipped her tea. She didn’t want to hear any more about Caid. She might have overreacted earlier, letting her fears connected to Randall influence her behavior. And the more she thought about it, the lousier she felt. Still, she wasn’t wholly in the wrong. He could have just apologized and left, instead of acting like a complete jerk.
    "I've read both his books,” Joan continued. “They're quite good. Page turners. I'm looking forward to his third. Caid tells me it will be out in the autumn."
    Hillary gritted her teeth and forced herself to pretend interest. "He writes suspense novels?"
    "Aye. Tends to focus on the darker side of human nature. Riveting reading, though. Have you seen anything by him in Canada?"
    "No." Hillary shrugged. "But I don't read a lot of fiction."
    "I’m sure I've both his books here." Joan stood and went to the bookshelf behind her, bending to read the cracked spines of the paperbacks crammed tightly together. "I keep everything I’ve read. Good to have for guests on a rainy afternoon."
    "You don't need to go to any trouble on my account." Hillary didn't have the heart to tell Joan that she'd rather have spikes hammered into her eyes than read anything Caid had written.
    "It's no trouble. Ah, here it is." Joan slipped the book out. "This was his first."
    Hillary smiled tightly as Joan handed her the novel. She pretended to scan the back before setting it on the table next to her. "Thank you."
    "My pleasure. When you finish it, you must let me know what you think.”
    “I’ll do that.”
    "You and Caid might have a great deal in common."
    What was that supposed to mean? "How so?"
    "Well, you both write books."
    "I write non-fiction for academic circles, he writes paperback novels." Damn, that sounded snotty.
    "Aye, I suppose there is a difference." Joan's tone cooled considerably.
    "I mean he's a story teller. What I do requires little creativity. The writing is quite dry and of almost no interest to anyone who didn't have an interest in the subject matter to begin with." Did that sound better?
    "I'm sure you dinnae give yerself enough credit. I would think writing about the European Witch trials would be terribly interesting." Some of the warmth returned to Joan’s voice.
    Hillary saw an opportunity to change the subject and jumped at it. “I think I found the tree where Anne was executed. I met a woman this afternoon who pointed it out to me.”
    Joan frowned. “What woman?”
    “Sarah Miller.”
    Joan pursed her lips. “I know her gran.”
    "There was someone else in the woods while I was out walking," Hillary said. Though why she would bring up the creepy people with the flashlights she wasn’t sure. Perhaps she hoped Joan could offer a comforting explanation.
    “Really? Who?”
    "I’m not sure, all I saw was their flashlights. And when I called out, no one answered "
    "May have been the Witchlights."
    Annoyance mingled with apprehension. "Witchlights?"
    "Aye. Glendon Woods is a haunted place."
    Hillary chuckled. "I don't believe in ghosts."
    "That's entirely yer prerogative, but you likely saw one or two just the same. The lights have been seen in those woods for hundreds of years. Long before there were