Kneading to Die Read Online Free Page B

tripped over another woman, meditating on a blanket. The woman’s eyes flew open at the disturbance. Stan slowed and yanked her right earbud out.
    â€œI’m so sorry. I almost got run over, too.”
    The meditator waved her off. “It’s no problem. All these exercisers are very serious out here. A good thing, I guess.”
    â€œIt is a good thing. I’m Stan. I just moved in . . . there.” She pointed at her adorable little house.
    â€œOh! We’re neighbors. I live there.” The woman fluttered her hand at the house right next to Stan’s.
    Stan realized it was the woman next door, the one with the golden retriever. She had been having the screaming match with the white-haired lady yesterday.
    â€œI’m Amara Leonard.” Amara rose gracefully to her feet, reminding Stan of a dancer. Short, though. Her shiny brown hair, cut in a chin-length bob, swung around her face. She wore funky pink glasses that made her eyes look cat-shaped. “I’m the one everyone thinks is crazy. I’m sure you’ll hear about it, if you haven’t already.”
    Stan laughed. “Crazy? I hadn’t heard. I’m Stan Connor. And are you crazy?”
    â€œA little,” Amara admitted. “But not for the reasons everyone thinks. I practice Reiki and homeopathy. Some people around here think it’s just a fancy way to say I’m a voodoo princess who’s plotting the demise of the town. Especially when I come out here to meditate.”
    â€œYou’d have to have something better than that for me to think you’re crazy,” Stan said. “I could use a good Reiki session. And my cat and I could both use a new homeopath.”
    â€œReally? I do animal homeopathy only, and I would love to help your cat. Is he ill?”
    â€œHe’s got some irritable bowel issues. I got him as a stray. He wandered into my condo complex a few years ago, after he’d been hurt. I took him to the vet, and he ended up staying.” Stan smiled. “He didn’t really want to, at first. I had to bribe him with homemade treats. That was the first night he didn’t scream at the door.”
    Amara laughed. “Cats are so ungrateful sometimes, aren’t they? So how do you treat his IBS?”
    â€œI make all his food. My grandmother taught me as a kid how to bake for animals, and I’ve expanded into cooking him actual meals. It’s helped.”
    â€œThat’s phenomenal,” Amara said, clapping her hands. “Oh, I would love to work with you. I don’t want to interrupt your run. Please call me for an appointment.” She reached for her pockets, then seemed to realized she had none in her yoga pants. “Shoot. No cards on me. Just come by. You know where to find me.”
    â€œI will,” Stan said. “Great to meet you.”
    â€œYou too! So exciting. I love people who get it.” Amara clapped her hands again, then plopped back down on her blanket, crossed her legs and began her Zen thing again.
    That was luck. Stan wasn’t sure what she “got,” but a homeopath next door was a good thing. Could she really meditate out here? Probably, Stan figured. She seemed way more enlightened. Amara was likely one of those spiritual-but-not-religious types who volunteered at soup kitchens and children’s cancer wards, played chants while she read self-help books and went to other countries to find herself or engage in some martyr-type activity to find a purpose. She also had a temper, which was obvious from her shouting match the day before. But everyone had a dark side.
    Stan jumped back on the path and picked up her jog. She noticed a woman on a bench watching her. She lifted her hand in a wave, then realized it was the white-haired woman. The other screamer. She looked straight at Stan, but she didn’t wave back. Shrugging it off, Stan turned her attention back in front of her a second too late. An enormous