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

drained away enough for her to look at her father’s actions in another light. He might not have believed her, but he’d gone to prison for what he thought was her crime. Her lungs burned and it was hard to breathe through the toxic mix of anger and grief that swelled within her at the realization that he thought her capable of beating a man, even Pastor Matt, into a coma. She coughed and breathed deeply, her chest expanding against the seatbelt. He’d spent twenty-three years locked up to protect her. Twenty-three years for a crime he didn’t commit. Resolve tightened Iris’s grip on the steering wheel. She had to get him out.
    It was only mid-afternoon when she got back to the motel, but Iris was tempted to head for the nearest bar, slug back a couple of beers, and see what the local action looked like. The melancholy anonymity of the motel room had a calming effect, however, and by the time she’d showered off the probably imaginary prison stink and changed into faded jeans and a Henley shirt, she’d plotted her next step. She needed an Internet café to find the name and address of her father’s lawyer. Giving her jewelry-making tools a wistful look, Iris slung her computer bag over her shoulder and closed the motel door firmly behind her. Maybe she’d try to sketch some designs for the new commission this evening, after energizing her father’s lawyer for a new appeal or whatever it took to free him.

fourteen
    iris
    The law firm of Weber and Parrish was located on Tejon Street in downtown Colorado Springs. Beyond noting brown stone and tinted glass, Iris gave the building little thought as she fed the meter, checked the lobby directory, and headed for the elevator. It spit her out on the seventh floor, and she found herself facing a travertine counter behind which sat a male receptionist talking on the phone. When the man hung up and gave Iris an enquiring look, she stepped forward.
    “I’m Iris Dashwood. I’d like to talk to Susan Tzudiker about the Neil Asher case. I don’t have an appointment.”
    The receptionist’s brows twitched together. “I’m afraid Ms. Tzudiker is no longer with the firm. She’s gone over to the other side.”
    Iris hated coy references to death. “She died?”
    The receptionist permitted himself a prim smile. “She joined the DA’s office. Lawyer joke.”
    “I’m really not in the mood for jokes,” Iris said. “Just hook me up with whoever took over Neil Asher’s case when Ms. Tzudiker moved on.”
    “What is your interest in the case?” the receptionist asked, clearly miffed by Iris’s tone. He picked up his phone and pushed an intercom button.
    “I’m Neil Asher’s daughter.” She’d been avoiding talking about her family for so long that claiming the relationship out loud felt strange.
    The receptionist’s brows soared and he turned away from Iris to murmur into the phone. “Someone will be with you in just a few minutes,” he said more cordially, gesturing toward a small sitting area.
    Too restless to sit, Iris prowled the reception area, inspecting the artwork on the walls, the predictable magazines on the glass-topped table, the array of plaques that extolled the firm’s contributions to the city. She’d looked at them all twice over before a man’s footsteps sounded behind her. She turned.
    “My God, it is you. Mercy Asher. I thought you were dead.”
    The man standing there, immaculate in a suit and tie, was still recognizable as the eighteen-year-old she’d last seen in jeans and worn leather jacket the night of her humiliation. There were crow’s feet around his brown eyes now, and silver strands in the black hair, but he still wore it in a low ponytail. The establishment suit dimmed the electric charge he used to give off; he’d been a wire thinly wrapped in leather and denim, apt to burn through at any moment. They’d met in Spanish class when Cade was a senior and Iris a sophomore. The attraction was mutual and violent. She knew her