Saving Her Shadow
Also by Lutishia Lovely
The Hallelujah Love Series
Sex in the Sanctuary
Love Like Hallelujah
A Preacher’s Passion
Heaven Right Here
Reverend Feelgood
Heaven Forbid
Divine Intervention
The Eleventh Commandment
The Business Series
All Up in My Business
Mind Your Own Business
Taking Care of Business
The Shady Sisters Trilogy
The Perfect Affair
The Perfect Deception
The Perfect Revenge
Published by Kensington Publishing Corp.
Saving Her Shadow
Lutishia Lovely
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Also by
Title Page
Copyright Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
SAVING HER SHADOW
DISCUSSION QUESTIONS
Teaser chapter
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
DAFINA BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2020 by Lutishia Lovely
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
DAFINA and the Dafina logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
ISBN: 978-1-4967-2443-4
ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-2444-1 (ebook)
ISBN-10: 1-4967-2444-5 (ebook)
First Kensington Electronic Edition: April 2020
Hey Lovelies!
I’m so excited to bring you Saving Her Shadow, the first Lutishia Lovely standalone ever! Yep, more than a decade and twenty books since debuting with Sex in the Sanctuary, I have written Shadow to stand all by her lonesome. Can you believe?
There were several points of inspiration for this story line, mostly television shows I’ve watched and found fascinating. At the top of the list was Leah Remini: Scientology and the Aftermath, found while idly scrolling through the channels for something interesting to watch. What she reveals in this docuseries is incredible. On one hand I found it hard to believe that anyone could be so completely brainwashed. On the other, as a preacher’s kid who spent a large part of my life in church, I knew exactly how it could happen—had witnessed it firsthand. The instructions that were followed, the rules they believed. The punishments accepted when a member was found to have done “wrong.” I could go on. One of her shows veered from Scientology and dealt with another religion whose followers had sent dozens of letters asking her to report on their denomination, Jehovah’s Witnesses. While slightly more familiar with this religion, I was still taken aback by the stories. I sympathized with the family members who’d been shunned, and cried for the children who’d died rather than seek medical treatment and were later touted during a national meeting as martyrs for God! Watching that episode reminded me of the phone call I’d received last year from a close friend, who’d just left the hospital after visiting a relative whose religion didn’t allow blood transfusions. The relative had had surgery and was rapidly losing blood. If they lost another pint, my friend was told, the patient would die. They chose to leave the hospital rather than witness that outcome. Unlike those child “martyrs,” the bleeding stopped. My friend’s relative lived. Somewhere between Leah and stories on Warren Jeffs, hit shows like Escaping Polygamy and my overactive imagination, this story was born.
Lest someone from these faiths read this and are offended, I mean no disrespect. Everyone is free to follow who/what they choose. There are several sides to every story. This one reveals the workings of a fictitious family, and highlights the power of love, the biggest and best religion of all!
Combined with my alter egos, this is my thirty-third book for Kensington Publishing, thirty-two of which have been edited by the incomparable Selena James, who I consider a sister-in-write. She is the midwife to my book babies and also doubles as a therapist, cheerleader, and EST (emergency scribe technician)! Thank you, Selena, for everything! This journey is made more amazing with you along for the ride. Rebecca Cremonese is a master production editor who dresses many of my book babies on their way to the shelf, including this one. Thank you for not blowing a gasket when minor changes and typo corrections were, well, not so minor. I still owe you dinner . . . and drinks! Barbara Brown, I have two words for this cover. Stun. Ning. It quickly became one of my all-time favorites and made me work to ensure that the content inside equaled its brilliance. Thank you for such great work. There are more noteworthy members of the Kensington village helping to raise my literary children, but in trying to name them all I might leave someone out so . . . THANKS EVERYBODY!!! I do want to give a shout-out to Steven (Zacharius) the Great, who pretends (or actually) can’t tell me from Zuri. It’s all in the shades.
Lovelies, most of you already know you’re the wind beneath my writer wings. From those who’ve been with me since my first book, to the ones for whom this is their first Lovely novel, THANK. YOU. Your support means more than those two words can convey or this writer can say. If I begin to name names, again, I will leave someone out, but those long-time loyal lovelies know who they are, and know they are truly appreciated. LOVE YOU BUNCHES!
At some numerology chart positions, thirty-three is considered a master number. It is a number representing family, harmony, idealism, and creative self-expression. In that way, Saving Her Shadow is the perfect thirty-third offering in my Kensington partnership, as these qualities are highlighted throughout Raina’s story. Ironically, or not, they also very much embody who I am and what I represent, a creative artist and light worker, using my gift to educate, enlighten, inspire and entertain, and to make the world a brighter place. Thank you for reading. I hope you enjoy. Until next time . . . keep shining!
Chapter 1
It was early afternoon in Lucent Rising. The sun was bright, the music was loud, and Raina Reed danced like moves were money and she was set on getting rich. Her body, lithe and compact, twisted and turned to the beat of the hip-hop magic pouring out of the Bluetooth Jam speaker, one of several pieces of contraband not allowed in the home, stuff she kept tucked away and hidden from view until rare moments like this when she was alone, could take off the mask, and let the real Raina come out and play.
This is how we do it!
Raina pointed to her reflection in the mirror while trying to twerk, an attempt she’d be the first to admit was pitiful at best. She continued, undaunted. Arms flailed. Shoulders popped. Booty moved to the beat—pushed on the one, pulled on the two. Clapping her hands, she changed the rhythm. Her head went one way, hips another—Bam! Pow!—from side to side, paying respectable homage to the first dance her mother, Jennifer, taught her, the classic cabbage patch. Shoulder-length curls freed from the band that usually held them tame now bounced to the beat, shaken into a sort of drunken afro, a halo of black hair around her shoulders. Energetic, wild, fully defiant—just like her.
Leaving the space in front of the mirror, she danced around the room with abandon. The Montell Jordan anthem gave way to Destiny’s Child, Will got jiggy with it, and the Fugees’ Lauryn Hill talked about “that thang.” The music made her happy, transporting Raina back to a time when it was just her and Jennifer living in Kansas City with a variety of music a constant backdrop to their lives. Mornings, hip-hop or R & B. Evenings, jazz or pop. Saturday cleaning, definitely old-school, the stuff Raina’s grandmother had played when Jennifer was little—Motown, Stax, the sounds of Philly. On Sunday a little food for the soul, courtesy of Kirk or Fred or a sister named Clark. They had a small, two-bedroom apartment near the historic Eighteenth and Vine district where sometimes on sultry summer nights, when the windows were up and nearby club doors were open, and her mother was supplementing her income as an administrative assistant by waiting tables at the Riff, jazz notes pierced the air, poured into Raina’s small bedroom and bounced on the sheets. On those nights she imagined the musician to be her father, a sax man who’d left when she was five years old and whom she barely remembered, the one who, until Jennifer married her stepdad, Raina hoped would swoop in as swiftly as he flew out, and rescue them from a humdrum life, take her and Jennifer to live in California, where she’d heard he resided, next door to the prince of Bel Air. There was little extra money but lots of love and even more laughter, when the only light she thought about came from a bulb or the sun. Back then, the word illumination meant lighting up a room or gaining a new understanding, not being a part of an insular organization with conservative, even controversial views that made most of that which used to bring joy to her life, stuff she should no longer do. Like watching certain TV shows. Wearing jewelry, makeup, and fly clothes. Letting her hair hang loose and free. And, of course, dancing. Secular music was forbidden not only in the Reed home, but in the entire subdivision, hundreds of acres owned by the church. To Raina’s benefit, the cultlike religious organization, of which her parents were staunch members and supporters, had a private school that only went up to the sixth grade. Those older were either homeschooled or went to the town’s public school, Chippewa High. An angel in the form of her grandmother Lorraine, for whom she was named, made sure Raina was a part of the latter crowd. Going to a regular school allowed Raina the chance to hear and enjoy today’s contemporary music and be more like a “normal” teen. She liked the new sounds well enough. Had a few favorites. But her mother’s old-school? That stuff from the nineties? It was the total feel-good formula to brighten any mood, including the one Raina had felt just before coming home. She bopped over to the stereo, increased the volume, danced in front of a full-length mirror, and imagined herself a video queen.
“Sister!”
Raina jumped. Not a dance move, but the kind that preceded having her epidermis appear on the floor, which, if jumping out of one’s skin was literally possible, would have just occurred. A layer of cocoa cuteness would be on the carpet, next to the heart that threatened to jump from Raina’s chest. In one fluid movement she crossed the room and tapped a key on the laptop. The music stopped, replaced by a silence that reverberated around the room.
“Shadow! You scared the crap out of me!”
To almost everyone else Abigail Denise Reed was Abby, but to Raina, when the two were alone, she was Shadow, the baby who’d followed her every movement since learning to crawl. The day she was born, then ten-year-old Raina dumped her favorite career Barbie for a live, half-sister doll. Two years later for Raina, and occasionally Jennifer, Abby became Shadow. Despite the ten-year age difference between the siblings, the love ran deep and created a close, impenetrable bond.
“Stop cursing, sister.”
“Crap isn’t cursing,” Raina patiently explained. “Now if I’d said shi . . .”
Abby gasped. Raina laughed.
“What do you mean sneaking up on me like that?”
“I knocked, but . . .” Abby’s eyes slid pointedly from Raina to the now silent laptop and back, wordlessly conveying why her taps hadn’t been heard.
Raina missed the message. Her eyes weren’t fixed on Abby but on the hallway behind her, even as she strained to listen for an opening door. Her parents had a knack for smelling trouble long after the aroma of action had happened. For more than one reason, seeing either her mom or stepdad right now would not be good.
“Are they here?” Raina mouthed, while knowing that if they were her stepdad would have already barged into the room, made like a thundercloud and rained on her private party of one.
Abby shook her head. “Why are you dancing? You know it’s forbidden. Where are your clothes? And look at your hair!”
“Um, where is my mama because you aren’t her?” Raina offered up major attitude but, knowing one or both of her parents would be home soon, walked into the closet and retrieved the more Illumination-appropriate baby-blue maxi dress she’d worn to school. She slipped it over the renegade tee and booty shorts. “How’d you get home?”
“Ms. Stone brought me.”
At the mention of Abby’s third grade teacher, Raina’s brow furrowed of its own accord. At twenty-five, Lucy was only seven years older than Raina but lived and breathed the organization’s teachings with the judgment and fervor of someone three times her age. She’d snitched on Raina three years ago when Raina had seen her at the high school, mistaken her as “one of the girls” and showed her a social media post about the Kardashians. Reality TV was considered unsanctioned viewing, and muted—not allowed—as was much of popular culture phenomena. Lucy snitched. Raina got grounded and was made to “go deep,” a multi-week deprogramming process that had cost her parents almost two thousand dollars. During those sessions the religion’s rules, tenets, and values were reinforced. Anyone suspected of being “dimmed” by exposure to negative influences outside their church culture—unsanctioned music, television, movies, video games, books, and the like—was moved into a property owned by the church and run by licensed clergy, isolated from family and friends, and reilluminated. There were dozens of common activities that were forbidden, against the rules. Raina had broken half a dozen in less than ten minutes, just by being herself.
“Mother and Father aren’t here, Shadow. Why are you over there looking terrified?” Raina walked over to the window, tilted the blinds to take in the driveway and the street beyond it, then hit a set of keys on the computer. The room felt happy once again, this time courtesy of a guy named Pharell. “Come on, Shadow! Let’s move!”
Raina began to dance again while Abby stayed glued to the doorjamb. Her thick blondish-brown braids waved stoically with each adamant shake of her head. “We’re not supposed to do that, sister. Dancing makes us dim. Jamie got caught watching TV and has to go deep for a month.”
Raina took in her sister’s worried expression and turned off the music once again. There was no easy winning-over that level of fear, the kind instilled in organization members, especially younger ones like Abby and her grade-school classmates, who’d been taught privately at the local organization’s Illumination Academy since their preschool years. In the past, listening and dancing to their mother’s music was one of many secrets the two sisters had shared. Raina sadly realized that as her sister got older, there would probably be fewer secrets between them.
After turning off the music, Raina returned the forbidden Bluetooth to
its shoebox hiding place in the closet. She retrieved a brush and hair tie from their Jack and Jill bathroom, plopped onto her bed, and began subduing her wild mane, returning it to the coiled ponytail the world saw.
“Come here, kiddo, and tell me about your day.”
Abby pushed off the doorjamb to join her on the bed. Only then did Raina notice her sluggish movements and slightly flushed skin. She reached out and placed a hand on her forehead.
“Shadow, you’re burning up!”
“Ms. Stone says I’m hot because I got mad at Jamie for getting his parents in trouble. She said that glow children controlled their emotions and that I’d feel better after appealing for healing.”
As far as Raina was concerned, Lucy Stone could take her prescription for feeling better and go straight to hell. Abby had claimed being tired the night before and had gone to bed early. And now on top of being tired she felt warm to the touch? Raina wasn’t buying what Lucy was selling. Something else was going on. Raina doubted reciting mantras would fix it.
“I don’t think you’re hot because you’re angry, Shadow. I think you have a fever because you’re sick.”
“Glows don’t get that way, Raina. Stop saying that word!”
Raina fought back a side-eye. Like if one didn’t say the word sick then it would never happen. It was just another ice cube of bullshit that she increasingly found floating in the organization’s philosophical Kool-Aid. It wasn’t Abby’s fault that she drank from the only cup of knowledge she’d ever been offered. But after four years of interacting with people taught to be dim, germy, and unsanctioned, Raina no longer sipped out of that glass.
“Teacher gave me some vitamin juice.”