Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 74005 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 370(@200wpm)___ 296(@250wpm)___ 247(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74005 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 370(@200wpm)___ 296(@250wpm)___ 247(@300wpm)
Hawk.
I slide my phone into the pocket of my jeans, throw a T-shirt over my head, and leave quietly, closing the door.
My housekeeper doesn’t work on Sundays, so Daniela will be alone.
She’ll be safe in my home, as I have excellent security.
I walk out to my truck.
Thoughts race through my head. The flowers that were delivered to Daniela at the hospital. Specifically to Eagle’s room. They’re still in the backseat of my truck. I have to have them analyzed. I also need to check those security tapes as soon as I can, but I already know who’s behind it. I quickly take the flowers inside and set them on the kitchen counter. I’ll deal with them later.
Jordan is the only one who knew we were at the hospital. Who also knew—and I have to figure out how—that Eagle had OD’d.
While it wasn’t Jordan himself who delivered the flowers, someone must have done it at his behest.
I return to the truck, get in, and take out my phone while sitting in the driver’s seat. I click on my search engine to access voter records.
I find Jordan’s and quickly program his address into my map app.
He lives in a small house near the culinary school in an Austin suburb. It’s early yet, so I drive to the address, switching the station to my favorite country rock.
The music eases into the day with the warm twang of steel guitar and the steady, unhurried rhythm of a snare drum. A male voice sings about dirt roads, second chances, and Sunday grace.
It’s country rock at its gentlest, where the electric guitar hums low under the harmony, and every chord seems to carry the smell of strong coffee and fresh biscuits. Between songs, the DJ’s voice is mellow, almost reverent, talking about family, faith, and the quiet joy of a Sunday morning.
I arrive at the small home in the Austin suburb. It’s unassuming—single-story brick, the kind of place that hides behind drawn blinds and a neatly trimmed yard.
Now what?
I can’t go knock on the door. Jordan will recognize me. I need to wait until he comes out, but it’s Sunday, so I could be waiting a while.
Still, since I don’t have any other plan in mind—very unlike me, I’ll admit—I park across the street and sit in my car, waiting.
I check my email, my texts. Take care of a few business things for tomorrow, and I’m about ready to call Daniela and see if she’s up when—
The garage door opens, and a Ford Focus pulls out and onto the street.
I recognize Jordan in the driver’s seat. Knowing he can’t see me behind my tinted windows, I pull out and follow him.
I want to keep a few cars back, but on a Sunday morning, that’s difficult. Not too many people are out, especially this early.
I follow him a few blocks until we reach a large building.
A large building with a steeple.
He’s going to church?
I suppose it’s not all that surprising. A lot of bad people go to church. They break every commandment in the book during the week and then on Sunday go to church looking for absolution.
Just the kind of hypocrites I can’t stand.
Shockingly, Jordan may be one of them.
It’s still early, about eight o’clock.
Seems early for a church service, but I watch as Jordan walks inside, along with several others.
I hold back for a few minutes, finding a spot a few blocks away, and then I exit my car and walk toward the entrance of the building.
Once I’m inside, a middle-aged woman with way too much red lipstick hands me a pamphlet.
“Welcome,” she says.
I take it. “Thank you very much.”
She squints. “I don’t recognize you. Are you new to the area?”
“I am.” I paste on a smile. “Just checking out churches in my neighborhood.”
“Wonderful. We hope you enjoy the service and that you’ll join us again.”
“I hope so too.”
“My name is Patrice.” She holds out her hand.
“Frank Dirkwood,” I say.
“So glad to have you here, Frank. Pastor Trout is a wonderful preacher.”
Trout? He’s also named for a fish. “Glad to hear it. Thank you for making me feel so welcome.”
I head into the sanctuary, looking for Jordan.
And surprisingly…he’s actually up front. With an acoustic guitar.
I steal a seat in the back and open my church bulletin.
I scan it quickly—sure enough, Jordan Fletcher is a member of the church’s praise band.
Wow.
That’s a perfect job for a serial killer. No one would suspect a fucking thing.
The band is made up of Jordan on the guitar, a drummer, a keyboardist, and a saxophone.
Bizarre combination.
There’s also a huge pipe organ, where an organist sits.
A moment later, the organist begins to play. The people around me pick up hymnals, open them, and begin to sing.
The lyrics are pure Sunday morning—about grace, redemption, and the promise of a better world—and the congregation sings them like they’ve known them since childhood. Some sway slightly. The organ swells beneath it all, its deep, resonant notes anchoring the more modern instruments.