The Cinderella Murder by Mary Higgins Clark, Alafair Burke Page B

moment—after the sermons, after the crowd dwindled—even more. This was his chance to speak in person to the church members who were so devoted to him personally that they would wait, sometimes hours, to shake his hand.
    He circled back around to the front of the church, saving for last a woman who waited in the front pew. Her name was Shelly. She had first arrived here eighteen months ago, a walk-in who had found a flyer for Advocates for God in the bus station. She was a single mother. Her daughter, Amanda, sat next to her, twelve years old with milky skin and light brown eyes fit for an angel.
    Martin reached out to hug Shelly. She rose from the pew andclung to him. “Thank you so much for your words of worship,” she said. “And for the apartment,” she whispered. “We finally have a home of our own.”
    Martin barely listened to Shelly’s words. Sweet little Amanda was looking up at him in awe.
    Martin had found a way to bring substantial funds into Advocates for God. Because they were now a government-recognized religion, donations were tax-free. And the dollar bills thrown from wallets in a post-sermon fervor were nothing compared to the big money. Martin had mastered a feel-good blend of religious and charitable language that was like a magic recipe for scoring high-dollar philanthropic contributions. He’d found a way to make religion cool, even in Hollywood. Not to mention the huge federal grants he landed with the help of a few like-minded congressmen.
    The money allowed the group to back its mission of advocating God’s goodness by helping the poor, including supporting members who needed a safety net. Shelly had whispered her gratitude for a reason. Martin could not provide a roof for every struggling follower—just the special ones, like Shelly and Amanda.
    “Still no contact with your sister?” Martin confirmed.
    “Absolutely none.”
    It had been two months since Martin had convinced Shelly that her sister—the last member of her biological family with whom she had contact, the one who told her she was spending too much time at this new church—was preventing her from having a personal relationship with God.
    “And how about you?” he asked little Amanda. “Are you are enjoying the toys we sent over?”
    The child nodded shyly, then smiled. Oh, how he loved that expression—filled with trust and joy. “Can I get a hug from you, too?” Another nod, followed by a hug. She was still nervous with him. That was okay. These things took time. Now that she and hermother were in an apartment that he paid for, he would increase the amount of time he spent with both mother and daughter.
    Martin knew how to lure people in. He had been a psychology major in college. One course had an entire section of the syllabus devoted to battered woman syndrome: the isolation, the power and control, the belief that the batterer is all-powerful and all-knowing.
    Martin had earned an A+ on that part of the course. He didn’t need the textbooks and expert explanations. He had seen those characteristics in his own mother, so incapable of stopping his father from hurting her . . . and young Martin. He had understood the connection between fear and dependency so well that at the age of ten, he had vowed that when he was older, he would be the controller. He would never be controlled.
    And then one day he was flipping channels in the middle of the night and saw a minister of a megachurch on television, a 900 number scrolling at the bottom of the screen for donations. He made everything sound so black-and-white. Ignore the word of the Lord and burn, or listen—and donate money—to the nice-looking man on the television and earn a place with God. Talk about power.
    He started watching that preacher every night, practicing the words and the cadence. He researched the IRS rules for religions. He learned about faith-based grants, which allowed churches to get government money by administering charitable programs. He