Free The Reckoning Stones: A Novel of Suspense by Laura Disilverio Page B

find a brown, fake alligator wallet? One of the ladies—”
    Iris seized the opportunity to escape. Opening the door, she let in a chilly breath. “Thanks. I might be back,” she said, slipping through the door without waiting for an acknowledgement.
    Walking away from the co-op without a conscious destination, she realized she was headed toward the house where she’d spent her first fifteen years. Toward her mother. She drew a few sidelong looks, possibly because she was a stranger, or maybe because she was the only woman wearing jeans rather than a skirt. Clearly, a lot of the Community’s restrictive rules were still in place: modest dress and long hair for women, no TV (if the lack of satellite dishes was anything to go by), simple living. Probably four elders and the pastor still ruled with iron rods, requiring the men to tithe and the women to be homemakers, meting out punishment to members who strayed from the path the elders had narrowed even more than Jesus intended. She brought her knuckles to her lips, feeling the ruler’s sting from when she’d stumbled over the words of Galatians 2:20 during a Sunday school recitation. Alcohol, tobacco, gambling, and sex outside marriage had been strictly forbidden while community service, Bible study, and church attendance had been required. She’d bet the elders were still all men.
    Nodding at one girl who gave her a shy smile, Iris left Center Street for the road her former home stood on. She continued the length of a football field to the house that used to be almost at the edge of Lone Pine, but which now had a buffer of newer houses between it and the line of trees which had been cut back to accommodate the Community’s growth. Her footsteps slowed as she drew level with the house, smaller than she remembered, painted blue instead of gray, the maple sapling grown up to tower over the roofline. Blurring her peripheral vision so she didn’t see the additional homes and streets, she experienced a chill of déjà vu. It felt like time travel must, like she’d walked out of her Portland life and into the 1990s. She could almost hear Noah bouncing his basketball on the driveway, and her mother sweeping the front stoop, her broom whisk-whisking . Iris’s mouth went dry; she’d forgotten to purchase water at the store. Suddenly reluctant to approach any closer, to knock on the door she used to bang in and out of at will, to speak to her mother, she stopped halfway up the drive.
    I don’t need to do this . The thought blossomed. She had returned to confront Pastor Matt and to see her father. Her mother … she didn’t need to see her mother. She turned away on the thought, the tightness in her chest easing slightly. She had taken one step when the door behind her creaked open and a pleasant voice asked, “Can I help you?”
    Reluctantly, Iris turned and found herself facing a stranger, a young woman with long reddish hair, a toddler balanced on her hip, and an enquiring expression. Having expected to see her mother, Iris was momentarily at a loss. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “No, I, um … I was looking for Marian Asher.”
    “Oh, she hasn’t lived here for years, not since the tragedy,” the woman said.
    Iris didn’t know if she was referring to the tragedy of her own disappearance, Pastor Matt’s incapacitation, or her father’s imprisonment. “I didn’t know.”
    “Marian is the church’s caretaker now … has been since before we came to the Community,” the woman said. “She lives in the cottage behind the church. We call it Outback Cottage because, well, it’s out back of the church. You can find her there. I’m sure she’ll be happy to see you.” She smiled goodbye and closed the door as the toddler began to make unhappy noises.
    Controlling an urge to jog back to her car, Iris kept her pace to a brisk walk and her eyes straight ahead. If she’d needed another reason for not seeking out her mother, the news that she lived in