The Reckoning Stones: A Novel of Suspense by Laura Disilverio

can damn sure be here for him now. He’s only in here because of me. The thought made her swallow hard.
    “You always were artistic,” he said. “We were so proud when your painting won the ribbon at the state fair that time. Remember?”
    Ice wormed its way down Iris’s spine. She remembered what that prize had led to. “I decided I preferred stones and metal to paint,” she said. Noticing with surprise that the clock was ticking its way toward the end of visiting hours, Iris reached for her father’s hand. “Look, Dad, I always wanted to say … thanks.”
    “You sent me a note.”
    “You got it?”
    He nodded. “Made it worth it.”
    Iris folded her lips in and blinked back tears. “You don’t know what it meant to me,” she said, “to realize you believed me. When Mom accused me of lying, and the whole Community … Well, when you didn’t stop it, I figured you didn’t believe me either. It wasn’t until a couple of years later, when I saw the article about your sentencing, that I knew you’d believed me after all. You punished Pastor Matt for—”
    “What?” His brow wrinkled, pulling his ears slightly forward.
    The young couple were hugging goodbye within earshot. “You beat up Pastor Matt,” she whispered. “You beat him into a coma. For what he did to me.”
    His mouth dropped open and he snapped it closed, a look Iris couldn’t interpret settling on his features. “I didn’t attack Matthew Brozek, Mercy,” he said finally. “I told the police I did so they wouldn’t go after you.”
    “You—” Iris stared at him. His words didn’t make sense.
    “I thought you did it.” He looked as stunned as she felt.
    “C’mon, Asher,” a corrections officer said, putting a heavy hand on her father’s shoulder. Another coughing fit seized him.
    “Can we have a couple more—” Iris started, desperate to continue the conversation, to seek clarity. Surely her father hadn’t meant—. Did he mean he hadn’t done it, hadn’t beaten Pastor Matt, that his confession was a lie? No way. The impossible thoughts whirling in her head weighted her down like a lead apron, rooting her to the chair.
    “Sorry, miss. Time’s up.” He started to lead her father away. He went easily, accustomed to following the rules, acceding to the guards’ authority, not drawing attention.
    Iris wrenched herself out of the chair and ran after them. A beefy guard blocked her way, expression stern. “Settle down, miss—”
    She craned her neck to see around the officer’s bulk, getting a sour whiff of chewing tobacco as he breathed open-mouthed. Her father paused at the door, looking back at her over his shoulder, his expression equal parts confusion, desperation and hope. “I don’t belong here, Mercy. I’m not—. Get me out.”
    “Dad—” But he was gone.

    At least he hadn’t said “God works in mysterious ways,” Iris thought savagely, pushing the rental car past ninety miles an hour as she drove away from the prison. Dun-colored prairie flashed past. A pronghorn bounded away. Traffic was light. The inside of the car felt too warm, like a mohair blanket wrapped around her, and Iris rolled down the window, preferring the slash of cool air against her face and bare arms. He hadn’t believed her, after all. No one had believed her. Tears pricked behind her eyelids. Talk about ironic, or a comedy of errors. One of the Greek playwrights must have written something like this. A man takes the blame for something he didn’t do, thinking he’s saving his daughter, while the daughter makes a hero of the man for doing the thing he didn’t really do. Iris shook her head violently to clear the confusing thoughts, and the car swerved onto the shoulder. The wheels juddered over fractured asphalt and weed clumps before she swung the car back on the pavement. The speedometer inched toward one hundred.
    An hour later she was almost back to Colorado Springs, forced to slow by clotting traffic, when the shock