Read Cuts Like a Knife: A Novel (A Kristen Conner Mystery Book 1) for Free Online Page A

village. I’ve been putting him off. I think my new case qualifies as a good excuse; a great excuse, in fact. But after having used several lame excuses in previous weekends, he’ll just feel put off again. I could be honest and just tell him I’m not interested in eighteenth-century customs and furniture, even if they managed to make it all without metal nails or the aid of electricity. Mom keeps telling me that this sounds like a lot of fun. I think my point is made.
    Dell gets offended pretty easily, even if he fights hard not to show it. He’s easy to read. Of course, I am a detective. Wonder if he feels put off because I always put him off? I met him at church six months ago, which I’ve been told—by my mom, of course—is a great place for single adults to meet members of the opposite sex with shared values and beliefs. I agree with all that, but it certainly doesn’t mean I’m morally obligated to fall for him, just because he’s good-looking, has a great job, drives an expensive car, and is very spiritual.
    Maybe it’s the pressure I feel from everyone, including my sisters. Maybe it’s his name: Dell. I am thankful I haven’t met his parents yet because there’s a good chance I’d bring the name thing up. Maybe it is Dell’s earnest patience with me that sabotages my feelings for him. He basically says he’s there for me and is willing to wait until I feel the same about him. That’s a turnoff.
    Kaylen says his patience with me is incredibly romantic. Yeah, whatever. And what’s with the Amish village thing? My mom says I always decide whether something will be fun or interesting before I give it a real chance—and that I’m often wrong. I don’t remember the being wrong part as much as she does.
    I’ve missed one call from Kaylen and five from Dell. Did he call her to tattle on me? Three voice messages. I just hit the call-back option for Dell. I’m not crazy about him, but I do think I should explain what’s going on and why I’m missing our Saturday date. The ringtone bleats four times then clicks into voicemail: “You’ve reached the phone of Dell Woods . . .”
    I jab the off button with my pointer finger. Better to listen to my voicemails from him first anyway. I do believe this is the first time Dell hasn’t picked up my call within the first two rings. I guess I made him mad. Good for him. It should make him mad. I don’t treat him as well as he deserves. If I don’t feel guilty, it’s because I’ve been honest with him all along, except for the Amish village thing. Besides, six months isn’t very long to really know who someone is. Especially when you refuse to let someone get to know you.
    I’m on the entrance ramp to the cross-town expressway that will deliver me to my apartment and a hot shower in twenty minutes. I work through the gears quickly and have it in fifth before I’ve merged onto the highway. The Saturday night party crowd is still at home getting ready, so I have pretty light traffic to weave through.
    Austin Reynolds of the FBI was pretty thorough on what we should expect when we got to the victim’s trendy townhouse. But I don’t think you can be thorough enough to prepare someone for the shock of what we saw.
    I’ve been in homicide two years now. Got my promotion and gold detective shield a year earlier than my dad did. And plenty of people let me know that my dad is the reason I got bumped up so young. So I’ve seen my share of death and destruction. But whoever this guy is, he’s a sicko. He’s evil. I’m not positive the case is going to stay with Don and me, but I have some intense feelings coursing through my body and soul. I can physically feel something from the top of my head to the soles of my feet. I’m angry, but it doesn’t feel like the lousy kind of anger I’ve been mired in the last couple months. Maybe I’m feeling a little of the holy anger Mom likes to brag about when talking about Democrats and the liberal bias in the media.