The Speed of Mercy by Christy Conlin (good books for high schoolers txt) 📕

the woods. Fifteen people were charred beyond recognition. There wasn’t a guest list. They had been identified through dental records: tourists, foreigners from the United States and England, from France, men on a wilderness holiday with Sodality. It was before DNA testing and such. When travel over borders and by air was much simpler. A few locals had drowned in the lake, what was left of their bodies found weeks later, washed from the lake to the river and then out into the Gulf of Maine. To Mal, the whole thing seemed like a creepy religious version of Outward Bound. It was a closed case. The two girls found there after the fire were never identified by name in the news.

No one really remembered this fire, Jillian explained. It was over forty years ago, and it had happened in a different part of the province. “You need to understand, today it might not seem far away, but in 1980, Seabury — a three-hour drive from Bigelow Bay — was a place unto itself. People didn’t have much interest in the world outside their own towns. It’s still somewhat the same today. And certainly back then, Seabury was distant enough for those in Bigelow Bay to consider it a different region. I’ve heard that one person who knows the story ended up as a long-term resident at the Jericho County Care Centre. It’s a place for adults of all ages who can’t live independently. It’s in Blossomdale on the County Home Road, about twenty minutes west of here.”

Mal didn’t bother explaining she had already tried to talk to the resident.

“Well, what about the Offing Society? Do you know anything about it?”

Jillian shrugged. “Not much. Some people say it was a secret society of women who lived by the ocean. Magical. It’s more of a legend. We don’t have any letters or books that mention it. The story seems to have been passed down only through the oral tradition, as many stories are.” Jillian escorted Mal out. On her way to the exit Kate handed her a flyer for a poetry reading at the museum in two days. She recognized the poet, Grace Belliveau, who had been popular with her UBC classmates. She shared that with Jillian, who wasn’t surprised to hear it. “She’s an acclaimed international poet, but that’s no way to make a living. She actually works at the Jericho Centre as her day job. Maybe she could help you.”

Mal went to the parking lot behind the courthouse and took out her phone to take a picture. The woman in the hiking boots and sundress was smoking, leaning against an old green pickup truck.

“I thought you were an apparition,” she said. “And those phones are nothing but bad news. It’s how they track you.”

A local conspiracy theory lunatic. Mal opened the car door.

“I heard what you and Jillian were talking about.”

Mal looked at her, this Seraphina woman. “You were eavesdropping?”

“Yes.”

“Seriously?

“Danger is coming,” Seraphina said flatly.

Mal tossed her purse and jacket onto the passenger seat. The woman was frightening her. For a moment, Mal felt as if she were in some weird mashup of Game of Thrones and Twin Peaks.

“They’re looking for Stella. Things got stirred up. I think you stirred things up. They think she might be hiding something that went missing. But Stella doesn’t remember anything. That won’t stop them from trying to find her though. They’ll go the whole wide world. I heard your name. I knew your mother. And your Gramma Grant.”

Mal didn’t know what to say.

“Your mother left and she was smart to do that. Your grandmother kept her safe, unlike my mother. My mother didn’t approve of the Offing Society.”

Mal crossed her arms and stared at this strange woman. She decided to press her, see what she could find out. “What exactly do you know about the Offing Society. And the Flying Squirrel Road. And a woman named Lucretia?”

Seraphina stared at her, her dark brown eyes watering. “We might be safer at the shore —”

Seraphina stopped talking and tilted her head, listening to something Mal couldn’t hear. “Okay, I got to go and have my blood work done. And find my own daughter. To keep her safe. You should leave, Malmuria. It’s not safe for any of us here.” She jerked the truck door open and leapt up into the seat. The engine roared to life and Seraphina zoomed away.

Mal got into her rental car and put her head on the steering wheel. She was exhausted. And afraid. How did this woman know who she was? And how was Mal going to find her again? Maybe it was time to call her mother in Big Sur. Maybe not. She drove out of the parking lot and headed to the other side of town.

As she parked in front of her cabin at the Sun Valley Motel, she half expected to see a black car parked nearby. Nothing. Mal relaxed. When she’d checked in last night, she hadn’t been surprised by the 1950s aesthetic of the old roadside motel outside of Bigelow Bay. She was already acclimatized to the Valley. It was worn and dated, but clean. And Mal had her own tiny cabin here, with two Adirondack chairs on the small deck, looking out on the old road through a stand of tall pines. Mal put the key in the door and went inside. There was a closet of a bedroom, a bathroom and a kitchenette in the main living space. It was quaint and felt safe, making her feel that no one in the world could find her. The old man had been happy when she’d paid in cash. He wrote her name in a book. It was the one time she missed social media, not being able to share photos of this place.

There was a bookshelf beside the couch with a crisp hardcover copy of Salman Rushdie’s Midnight’s Children, some vintage Nancy Drew and Hardy Boys books, a few tattered National Geographics, a brand