The Reckoning Stones: A Novel of Suspense Read Online Free PDF

“I guess I deserved that.”
    “What made you run off last night?”
    His words stopped Iris mid-laugh. The newscaster’s voice sounded in her mind, telling her that Pastor Matt had emerged from his coma. She rolled away from Greg, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. When she sat up, the sheet slipped to her lap, and a chill mottled her arms. Reaching for the green sweatshirt bunched on the wicker rocking chair, she pulled it over her head, then stood and found her discarded panties, stepping into them unselfconsciously. “Nothing. It wasn’t about you. I didn’t feel well.” Leave it alone .
    “Want to talk about it?”
    Iris gave him a look.
    “I’ll take that as a ‘not yet,’” he said, not one whit abashed. He interlaced his fingers behind his head and grinned sleepily at her, not taking the hint that he should be getting dressed.
    His nose was crooked, like it had been broken, and Iris wondered if he’d been in a fight, or an accident of some kind. He needed a haircut, too. “I’m hungry, and I’ve got work to do,” she said.
    “Don’t let me stop you,” Greg said, rolling onto his side and closing his eyes. “I need a nap.”
    Iris stared at him. He was asleep. In her bed. Strangely, his tanned torso didn’t look as alien as it should against the white of her sheets and comforter, the willow-patterned wallpaper the landlord’s grandmother had probably chosen. It wouldn’t hurt anything if he slept here while she ate and worked in her studio. But he’d have to leave as soon as he woke up. Her boy toys did not have spend-the-night privileges.

five
    iris
    Iris padded barefoot into the kitchen. Scrambling an egg with chives and nuking it, she ate, standing over the farmhouse sink and gazing absently out the window onto what was probably the most out-of-control yard in the greater Portland area. Almost a foot high in spots, and studded with dandelions and weeds, the grass could have hidden a tiger. A jungle gym, abandoned by a previous tenant, rusted near the back fence, swings jittering to the raindrops’ beat. Rose bushes rioted in a bramble of thorns, buds clenched. Lashed by the rain, it all looked even more depressing than usual, and Iris turned her back on it. She hadn’t planned to stay this long, so it hadn’t seemed worthwhile investing any effort in subduing the yard.
    Maybe it was time to move on. She’d spent more time in Portland than anywhere else since washing up at Lassie’s pub two-plus decades ago, hungry, bone-weary, and willing to put out for food. She’d been here ten years cumulatively, interspersed with years in California and Europe, apprenticed to metalsmiths and jewelry designers, and months-long stays in other parts of the U.S. and the world, scavenging for stones or design ideas to incorporate into her jewelry. Santa Fe or Austin might spark new design ideas, lift her spirits. She was ready for a city with more sunshine.
    The refrigerator hummed on, startling her, and she headed to the studio, the small spare bedroom she’d made into a work area. Tension eased from her shoulders as she crossed the threshold. Her tools—files and pliers, punches and scribes, Bezel rollers, clamps, mandrels, and others—hung in their places, ranged on a pegboard mounted above the counter she’d had installed when she moved in. The big drill press and the tumbler had their own table beneath the window. Semi-precious gems, wire, stones, and other materials lodged in clear plastic drawers. Design ideas seemed to flow more easily in an orderly space than in a cluttered one. Pushing aside the low stool, she crouched and dialed the combination of the wall safe set under the counter. Halfway through, she stopped. She was too jittery to work with the Weston emerald. She stood and picked up a half-finished cuff that lay on the counter. Hooking one foot around the stool’s leg, she drew it toward her and sat.
    The two-inch wide strip of hammered copper had a filament of silver