Cuts Like a Knife: A Novel (A Kristen Conner Mystery Book 1) by M.K. Gilroy Read Free Book Online Page A

out of bed with a start. I told Kaylen I would get to church early to help her with Kendra’s Sunday school class. Soccer coach; class helper; what next? Weekend babysitter? Yeah, I’ve already done that gig, too. Not that I’m complaining. Not really.
    • • •
    I slide into the pew next to Kaylen. She’s singing and barely acknowledges me. That means she is not happy with me. She finally looks over a stanza or two later and gives a half-hearted nod. I don’t think her smile is totally sincere. Not very nice for a pastor’s wife. In my typical contrarian pathology I immediately feel better. If the nicest woman in the world is being pouty, then I can’t be that bad, right? I almost smile. I look over to see if there is any sign of a cute little baby bump. Not yet. Maybe she and Jimmy need to work harder. She feels my gaze and scowls at me. Now I do smile. My gorgeous, kind-hearted, forgiving older sister can never stay mad at me—unlike my younger sister who can stay mad at me for years and who isn’t in church with us again this week, I notice.
    I missed all of Sunday school and was fifteen minutes late for the worship service. That means another ten minutes of singing. All standing up. The words are projected on a screen. I understand contemporary church services are designed to appeal to contemporary people like me, but it wouldn’t kill us to sing a couple verses from the hymnal—preferably sitting down. Ten minutes of announcements and the offering will follow. Jimmy will preach about thirty-five minutes.
    We’re usually out the door at 12:15. The Baptists, who are apparently more punctual, will have all the good restaurant tables tied up by then—the charismatics follow in waves at 1:30 or so. Our independent church is in the no-man’s land of Sunday dinner scheduling, so we always eat at Jimmy and Kaylen’s house. All of us are on a budget except for Klarissa anyway. We used to do it at Mom and Dad’s house, but there is more room at Jimmy and Kaylen’s. Tradition can be a good thing. Like I said, it wouldn’t kill us to pick up a hymnal and sit down for a song or two. I think the hip and contemporary train left the station without me. My news reporter sister got in the first-class car. She said she was just going to visit somewhere closer to her house for a week or two, but I think she has wanted a change, maybe something a little more formal and sophisticated—like her. No big deal. There has to be a reason there are so many different kinds of churches. At least I hope so. I’d criticize her for not just coming out and admitting that to Jimmy and Kaylen, but after not telling Dell that I did not want to visit an Amish village with him, it would be hypocritical.
    I’m leaning hard with two hands on the chair in front of me. Kalen’s giving me sideways glances and decides to forgive me for slinking in late. I get a sideways hug. Maybe she has put on five pounds.
    My mind sometimes wanders in church, but not today. It stays focused. Just not on church. I’m thinking about yesterday’s meeting at headquarters. After Reynolds’ presentation, Captain Zaworski recapped the FBI profile of our alleged perp. Male. White. Very methodical, maybe an accountant or engineer. He’s intelligent. Watches TV, because he leaves next to no trace of his existence at the scene. All those shows on forensic evidence have seen to that, even though, technically, every human encounter does leave some physical record. He blends in well. Probably helps old ladies cross the street. Will say hi to new neighbors, but won’t engage. His relationships won’t be in his neighborhood. He’s a good actor.
    How the FBI has identified his bonding issues, his desire for narrativity—a fancy way of saying he likes to tell stories about himself—and a childhood filled with an alienating, abusive, and neglectful mother and an absent father—left the family? died?—is beyond me. And as I like to tell Don and anyone else who