The Less You Know, The Better

By JF Sims

The past comes back to haunt LaShaun Delaney, the First Lady of an

Atlanta mega ministry whose life has been a rollercoaster of turmoil

and uncertainty. Following a year marred by terrifying trauma and

shocking revelations surrounding Sweet Dreams Boutique, she

believed the worst was behind her. Little did she know that t

• Language: English
• Publisher: J.F. Sims Publishing
• Release date: Oct 16, 2023
• ISBN: 9798986860534

Book preview

Chapter One

LaShaun

Don't let the outside know what your inside is doing, LaShaun reminds herself as she glides her sweaty palms down her denim-clad thighs. Lucille, her grandmother, would tell her that when she was aching from menstrual cramps, at odds with a friend, feeling trepidation about a speech she was required to recite at church, or whenever it was necessary to mask her inner angst.

A teenager at the time, LaShaun thought she knew it all and dismissed what she said as a small-town cliché. Now that she is First Lady at the largest mega-ministry in Atlanta, it rolls off her tongue without effort or aforethought.

Tonight, she’s recording the seventh episode of the season. As she struggles to steady her breathing, she fixes her eyes on the microphone-shaped clock above her studio door. Langston, her husband of sixteen years, gifted the digital timepiece to her three years ago when she launched her Called to Soar podcast. And looking at it reminds her of better days.

Days when she was consistently on the top ten list of Christian podcasters and a renowned speaker at conferences throughout the country. Nowadays, her listeners are few, and her speaking engagements are non-existent.

Her hands begin to tremble as she watches the clock, and she knows her cell phone will vibrate fifteen minutes after she signs off. Again, the caller will speak with the same robotic voice and issue the same ominous threat. "Judgement day is coming, First Lady. Better get ready."

Unable to quell her nerves, her mind wanders back to the harrowing night she heard those words for the first time.

***

Two weeks prior, LaShaun sat at the microphone recording the sixth episode of her podcast, and she was managing the soundboard herself. Typically, Chima, her sound engineer, is with her, but that night, he was attending his daughter's recital and left her to record alone.

Her studio occupies one of the ten spaces on the fourth floor of a meticulously refurbished warehouse—an ideal place for lawyers, accountants, and other professionals who can afford the exorbitant rent.

At 6:45 p.m., after all the tenants left for the evening, she finished the episode and sent the recording to her production assistant. Proud of her accomplishment, she congratulated herself as she locked the studio door and headed toward the elevator.

Her cell phone vibrated as she walked down the long hallway, and she assumed it was Langston. He usually checks on her when she leaves the studio, and she anticipated nothing less that evening.

Hi, Langston. I'm leaving now.

When the caller didn’t respond, she removed the phone from her ear and checked its screen. Unknown Caller was displayed, and she willed herself to suppress the unsettling thoughts that crept into her mind.

Langston, are you there?

Still, no response. Cell phone coverage weakened the further she ventured down the hall, so she decided to stand still. When she did, the overhead lights flickered out, and she found herself shrouded in darkness.

Adjusting her eyes to the darkness, she searched for the phone's flashlight icon to illuminate her path to the elevator. She told herself not to panic, but her anxiety level increased with each second it took to find it amongst all the others.

After finally turning it on, she shined the light down both ends of the hall. To her alarm, someone stood in the distance when she aimed it to her left, and she screamed.

The stranger held a crowbar in their right hand and moved in her direction as they howled, First Lady. Upon hearing the distorted voice call her, adrenaline kicked in, and she bolted for the elevator.

When she reached it, her pointer finger moved frantically as she pressed the down button over and over. At the mercy of the elevator, she yelled for help until the door finally opened.

Just as she rushed inside, the pursuer lunged forward, narrowly missing her as the door closed. Relief flooded her body as she was temporarily protected inside.

While the elevator descended, she dialed 911, but there was no cellphone reception. All she could do was take her keys from her purse and pray she could outpace her chaser.

When she reached the parking level, and the elevator doors opened, she darted out of the building, aiming her key fob at her car while sprinting the short distance to it.

Looking behind her as the Falcon wings flew up, she saw the culprit gaining on her and feared she wouldn't make it. Then, refusing to lose hope, she increased her speed even more and ran as if her life depended on it… because it did.

She could hear her pursuer gaining ground as she threw herself into the car, and the automatic doors closed. With her heart pounding, she put her foot on the brake, and the Tesla roared to life just as the would-be attacker swung the crowbar toward the window.

As she sped out of the deck and onto the street, one thing was clear: someone was trying to kill her, and the danger was far from over.

She traveled at full speed until she was sure no one was pursuing her. Then, as she began to calm down, the phone vibrated again. After she whispered a shaky Hello, a robotic voice sang, Judgment Day is coming, First Lady. You better be ready next time.

Then she knew to be prepared for whatever, whenever. And, from that point forward, she's treated her Springfield Hellcat RPD like she does her credit card; she never leaves home without it.

***

Remembering the events of her first encounter, LaShaun’s mind is inundated with one question: Who is trying to kill me, and why?

Chima has been her engineer since the podcast was nothing more than thoughts on paper, and she considers him a dear friend. But lately, he's been quieter than usual. He no longer engages in their usual between-the-break banter, which unnerves her. And now, as she considers potential suspects, she can't rule him or anyone else out.

He raises a cue card to begin the one-minute countdown. We're in the final stretch, he speaks into the headsets as he puts a band around his dreads. His effort results in a ponytail that resembles porcupine quills spanning the back of his head. Giving her a thumbs up, he flashes his pearly whites and adds, You were excellent, as usual.

She nods in appreciation. Thanks. I couldn't do any of this without you. Then, raising her Dasani to her lips, she chugs the water like frat boys do beer. The room is too hot to concern herself with how unladylike it appears.

You alright, boss lady? Chima looks at her with furrowed brows.

Beads of sweat dot her forehead, and red splotches color her cheeks. So, she tucks her hair behind her ears and pats her forehead with a napkin. The county controls the old warehouse's heating system, and it's never set to a comfortable temperature.

I'm okay. She closes her eyes and fans herself with several sheets of paper, hoping for a semblance of gratification.

It'll be over soon, he tells her as he returns his attention to the knobs on his equipment.

When the ad announcing an upcoming church revival ends, Chima raises his right hand to signal they're returning from the commercial break in three…two…one second.

Acknowledging him with a faint head dip, LaShaun forms a ball with the wet tissue and tosses it toward the trash bin near the door. Nothing but net, she says to herself when it enters.

When the music cues, she leans closer to the pop filter. Then, the green light appears on her monitor, and she delivers her final message on The Comparison Trap.

She wrote the piece to remind her listeners of the danger of comparing themselves to others. For when you do, you're either envious or prideful, and God's not pleased with either, she admonishes. After she's done, she segues to her closing.

"And remember, friends, the enemy has no power over you. So, I encourage you to move forward, knowing faith is your armor and victory is your reward. I am the LaShaun Delaney. And I'm here to tell you it's time to mount up...and soar!" Despite what she's feeling within, she delivers with the ease of a veteran journalist.

Chima begins the show's Outro and turns off LaShaun's microphone and headset. Removing them from her ears, she places them on the docking station and rolls her neck from right to left to relieve tension. Again, she peeks at the clock: One hurdle down, one to go.

As she exits the sound room, Chima claps his hands and greets her with a boyish grin. Only one more episode, and we're done, First Lady.

LaShaun stops and glares at him. What did you call me?

Chima stares at her with wide eyes. "Umm...First Lady. Did I say something wrong?" he asks slowly.

LaShaun can't tell if he is genuinely ignorant of what she is referring to or trying to recover from a slip of the tongue. Thus, she measures her words carefully.

"Why did you call me First Lady? You normally call me LaShaun or Boss Lady." Her heart races, but her voice is steady and light. Keeping her eyes on him, she tightens the grip on her purse. If push turns to shove, she will smash him upside the head with her weapon. Then, she'll shoot him if necessary.

Chima smacks his teeth and flicks his wrist. I don't know. I guess you are giving me first-lady vibes tonight. He pulls out a chair for her to sit on. But don't worry. I won't call you that anymore.

She ignores the chair and walks towards the door. Not sure whether she is tripping or not, she forces a smile. My friends don't call me First Lady. You're still my friend, aren't you?

He swivels his chair to face her. "Most definitely. You and me us never part." He uses his hands to mimic Celie from The Color Purple.

LaShaun exhales as she laughs and feels lighter when she leaves the building. But it is short-lived. For, according to her smartwatch, the call will come in five minutes.

Chapter Two

Heiress

Heiress stands before the six-foot mirror propped against her bedroom wall and stares. She's not concerned with the dark circles beneath her eyes, swollen eyelids, or puffy cheeks. Having cried throughout the night, she's only concerned with one thing. How did I get here?

And as if she is a director who just declared, Roll Tape, a scene flashes in her mind's eye. She sits on a silver table with her legs spread wide enough to expose her red lace thong. The black dress that once hugged her small curves is pulled to the area where her thighs meet her torso. Victor Cruz–her boyfriend of two years, stands in front of her with his bare muscular thighs pressed against the frigid metal. His orange jumpsuit pools around his ankles as if anchoring him in place.

Heiress knows how the story unfolds and, not wanting to relive what transpires next, shakes her head like an Etch-A-Sketch to erase the memory.

For the past fourteen weeks, she's viewed her petite frame several times per day. But when she looks at her reflection this morning, it's with a new-found resolve. Grief threatens to overtake her.

She turns her body to the right side, then the left. Time is still on her side, and a small part of her is thankful. Soon, she will no longer carry the secret she's harbored for months. A new one will replace it.

When she turns to face her image, she forms a heart with her hands and places them on her stomach, cradling the invisible seedling. To others, her body hasn't changed. But to her, everything about her has. And with every cell in her body, she fights to suppress the deep anguish that robs her of sleep at night and peace during the day.

A year ago, she would have welcomed a newborn. Then, Queen Heir Purse Boutique–her online store, was popular and profitable. Johnysa, her newly divorced mother, had a thriving law practice. LaShaun, her mentor and godmother, had been rescued from her kidnapper. And Vic was still a decorated detective.

Now, he's a felon.

A month ago today, he pleaded guilty to official misconduct, obstruction of justice, aggravated assault, and false imprisonment. Yet, none of that changes her love or desire for him. And their last conjugal visit– an illegal perk of his longstanding friendship with the warden, yielded more than a happy ending.

Now, alone and unwed, she's made a decision that defies her faith and crushes her spirit.

This year, the Supreme Court struck down Roe v. Wade, and red states swiftly enacted new abortion restrictions. Thus, like Georgia, bordering states do not permit abortions after six weeks.

She was told of a South Carolina doctor who ignores the law if the money is right. So, tomorrow, she will travel from Atlanta to his center in South Carolina. There, she will abort her child.

Things would be different if Vic were to be released soon. They could raise their baby as husband and wife in a healthy home. But his sentencing is two weeks away, and he's looking at a minimum of twenty years. Their child will likely be in puberty when he's granted parole.

As she strokes her stomach, a flood of hot tears streams down her face and mingles with the snot she's unable to keep from escaping her nostrils. "I love you, Little One. You hear me?"

Two days ago, she hadn't allowed herself to acknowledge her baby's humanity. Her little one was a situation, and viewing it as such gave her the strength to think about her predicament logically.

Now that she's come to terms with the inevitable, she is determined to acknowledge the life growing within her. The life love created.

"This cruel world isn't good enough for you, Little One. It's filled with evil, and it would be wrong to bring you into it. I won't let you become a fatherless child." She sobs harder and louder as an overwhelming sadness overtakes her.

Without warning, she feels like she's drowning and having a heart attack. Gasping for air, she grabs a paper bag from her nightstand. A sharp pain grips her heart as she dumps the hair supplies on the bed and places the opening over her nose and mouth, sealing it with her hands. She prays for mercy as she struggles to inhale and exhale.

When she starts to breathe easier, she falls onto her bed. And as her head hits the pillow's edge, she bellows, I'm so sorry, God. Please forgive me. Please!

Heiress, are you okay? Johnysa knocks on the door. She recently returned from the grocery store and thought the crying noise was coming from the television. But when she opened her mouth to direct Heiress to turn it down, she heard her despairing cry. May I come in, please?

Heiress tries to answer between sobs but can't. When Johnysa rushes in, Heiress's back faces the door, and she is in a fetal position.

Johnysa tramples over the horde of purses strewn about the room. Upon reaching her, she scoops her into a tight embrace and rocks her back and forth. The same way she did when she was a child.

Any other time, Johnysa would harangue her for keeping her room in such disarray. Today, the state of her room is the least of her concerns. So, she rubs Heiress's back as she consoles her. It's okay. Let it all out. Soon, Heiress's crying subsides, and she pulls away.

Not knowing what to do with her hands now that they're free, Johnysa picks the purses off the floor. As she does, she remembers gifting Heiress purses for birthdays and academic achievements. Even in childhood, Heiress had an adultlike passion for clutches, cross bodies, and handbags of any style.

Johnysa hangs some in the closet and arranges others on the white oak desk her ex-husband built when Heiress started kindergarten. Immediately, she envisions her at six years old. It's the night before the first day of school, and she's gotten her hair straightened. The front half is in a curly top ponytail, and the rest hangs in spirals down her back.

She struts around the house in a Lion King nightgown and four-inch heels that fit like kayaks on her feet. A giant pink shoulder bag is on her right forearm, and her wrist hangs limp as she walks around the living room, switching her narrow hips from left to right, smacking her lips, and starting each sentence with, Honey child.

Honey child, I know I look good! Honey child, I can't talk to you right now; I'm headed to the mall. Or Johnysa's favorite, "Honey child, don't be looking at me with your broke self. Ain't nothin' going on over here but the rent."

Johnysa smiles. If she could transport Heiress back to those days, she would. But she has grown folk problems now. The kind that keeps you from framing coherent sentences and binds your stomach in knots. The kind she has to take to the Lord in prayer.

When Johnysa returns to the bed, Heiress is calm. They sit and let the silence envelop them like a warm blanket on Christmas Eve. Minutes pass before Heiress adjusts her body and places her head on Johnysa's lap. Johnysa takes that as a clue to provide counsel. So, she does as she tenderly caresses Heiress's