Accommodations Requested: The Laylah Quentin Chronicles

By Meshia Sampson

Accommodations Requested: The Laylah Quentin Chronicles is a fast-paced tale of romance and adventure and the first of magical realist novel series. This book introduces readers to the enthralling exploits of an ordinary young girl living an extraordinary life.

In the sleepy suburbs of upstate Wisconsin, a young girl, Laylah Quentin, finds herself abruptly thrust into the outrageous reality of the 1960s when her father dies. Greedy relatives arrive to collect their share of the inheritance, but when the stipulation is revealed that they must take custody of Laylah in order to receive the money, they conspire to get rid of her. Shes secretly shipped off with an enigmatic social worker to one of several unruly foster homes. Fantastic disasters and darkly humorous mishaps force her to become a runaway. At the height of her tumultuous journey, Laylah crosses paths with an immortal thief named Jesse and reinvents herself from a meek teenager into a fierce outlaw as he leads her on a nationwide crime spree.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Apr 14, 2011
• ISBN: 9781462899951

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Her heart beats so hard against her chest she thinks it might break through her rib cage and burst free into the stifling midday air. It doesn’t matter; she refuses to stop running. Her breathing is labored, and she gulps down every breath. She can’t stop. Her penny loafers skid across the pavement, unequipped to handle the beating she’s giving them. She stumbles up the stairs, falling repeatedly before she reaches the top and rounds the corner, colliding into startled onlookers. Once inside the hospital, the smell of alcohol and bleach bombard her senses, and she’s momentarily thrown off track. Her main objective is to reach the nurse’s station. She has to find his room number; she has to save him. She sprints down the halls, frantically turning in every direction, frustrated, lost, and on the verge of exploding with hysteria. Finally, a nurse’s station! She practically throws herself over the desk, grabbing the attention of an alarmed petite blond woman dressed in all white.

My name is Laylah Quentin, my father is Garrett Quentin. He was admitted here an hour ago, and I need to know his room number please! she says in one exhausted breath. The woman in white examines a stack of files and charts while taking cautious side-glances at Laylah. She opens a dark-blue file, nonchalantly leafs through the papers inside it, and then comes to an abrupt stop. A grim expression covers the woman in white’s face, and she slowly turns in Laylah’s direction with her head down.

I… I’m sorry… , she stammers and looks down once again.

The explosion Laylah has been suppressing is quickly beginning to erupt in her chest. What’s the room number! she screams at the woman.

Two two nine, she replies, refusing to make any further eye contact.

Laylah takes off down a hall, and the numbers become a blur as she whizzes by. Nearly missing the designated door, she slides to a halt in front of the most horrific scene she has ever witnessed. A priest, along with a small crowd of orderlies, nurses, and doctors surround a steel bed, and a worn gray sheet is being lifted over her father’s face. His eyes are closed, and his arms are crossed over his chest. Any control that had contained the hysteria within Laylah instantly dissolves, and she lets out a bloodcurdling scream that ricochets off the aqua tile and pale yellow walls. She lunges toward the bed in an attempt to revive him.

He’s sleeping! she thinks. No one has tried to wake him, and he’s sleeping!

Before she can reach him, a barrage of hands and arms restrain her and begin to force her out of the room.

No! she screams. No, please! Daddy, no!

She breaks free and grabs hold of his left hand. She squeezes and pleads with him to wake up to no avail. The hands regain control and seize her once again, dragging her roughly away. The door closes, and she hears the echo of the lock as it turns shut. Through the haze of tears and inconsolable words, she looks down to see in her palm a gold ring. Her father’s wedding band. She surrenders to hysteria again.

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JULY 29, 1967

Laylah has never been to a funeral before. She’s heard from others how they went and suspected this one wouldn’t differ from any other. Everyone was to wear black, there was a procession with limousines and police ushering the traffic, a close relative or colleague was to do a eulogy, and of course, the onslaught of grieving associates would make the rounds—discussing the good times over dark wine.

July is a dreadful month to have a funeral. It’s muggy and humid on top of an advancing squall threatening the horizon and turning the sky dark charcoal. Laylah rides in the longest of the limousines, an unwelcome privilege. She sits beside her uncle Harold, who, to her knowledge, is a relatively wealthy broker; his wife Tanya, who is a fairly new addition to the family; Uncle Lloyd, her father’s youngest brother; and his distractingly voluptuous wife, Aunt Leanor. Regardless of the abundance of family present, no one attempts to console one another with conversation. Uncle Harold stares absentmindedly out of the dark-tinted window, while Aunt Tanya regards Aunt Leanor’s black patent leather ankle boots with silent disdain. The billowing gray clouds rumble menacingly with thunder, and quick streaks of lighting threaten to break the sky. The silence inside is deafening, and the journey from her house to the cathedral seems to take a lifetime. Laylah has never been in the same vicinity as all these people at the same time before, and the experience is becoming increasingly unimpressive. They all look alike, aside from her new Aunt Tanya, whose dramatic mass of red hair and pale skin distinguished her unmistakably as an outsider. They all have soft features, light brown hair, and deep, penetrating green eyes that served the men in the family well when it came to courting women. She had appreciated those physical traits about her father the most and attributed her good looks to him whenever given a compliment. Now, whenever someone complimented her looks, instead of saying Thank you, my father and I look alike, there would be a sad awkwardness following any compliment she received here on out.

It will be "Thank you, my father and I looked alike."

Then the inevitable questions would follow on how he passed away, and she wonders how she will answer. Maybe she should fabricate something really extraordinary, like a shark attack while rescuing a millionaire’s sole heir or perhaps drowning during a failed Titanic excavation. Something as simple as a heart attack hardly seemed fitting for such an amazing man. The realization that the limousine has stopped wakes Laylah from her distorted train of thought and brings about a sudden attack of nausea. The time has come to get out and go inside, but no one makes a move. The thunder outside rumbles a little louder as if it’s trying to antagonize the already severely intense situation. Somebody in the limousine has a pocket watch, and the ticking gradually becomes louder and louder with each second that passes by.

Tick, tock, tick, tock.

Surprisingly, Uncle Harold is the one to break the silence. Let’s just get this over with then, there’s no use avoiding the inevitable, huh?

Tick, tock, tick, tock.

He speaks again; this time his voice is less shaky, Now, I understand that this is a… uncomfortable process for us all, but how is it going to look if we just sit here? Now, Garrett would have wanted us to be strong, so let’s do him proud and show some gusto.

Although his impromptu speech is intended to motivate their sorry entourage, no one budges—not even him. The sound of her father’s name sends an unexpected wave of emotion over Laylah, and she finds herself on the verge of tears. She doesn’t want to cry, not in here with all these… strangers. Weeping was a personal thing that she couldn’t bring herself to share with anyone except the one person who she would be weeping for. It’s ironic. The limousine seems to be getting smaller, and she feels the space enclosing on her. To everyone’s surprise, Laylah opens the door and steps out.

The air is so thick and opaque almost to the point of suffocating. The wind immediately attacks her, and the sky begins to leak fat raindrops. She has brought an umbrella but decides against it. She wants to feel the summer rain against her skin. Anything is better than the urge to vomit and the burning behind her eyelids.

The cathedral is a large daunting structure that seems more like a medieval castle than a church, aside from the antique cement angel statues looming over its five bell towers. The bells ring in a nonmelodious tone, providing no comfort or sense of peace. The family reluctantly files into the church, with heads bowed, taking the difficult journey to their seats in the very front pews. Several elderly women whom Laylah has never met come and give their sincere condolences then sulk back into the assembly of faces. There’s a light incomprehensible murmuring and some blatant staring and pointing in Laylah’s direction, making it obvious that she’s the topic of several conversations.

The church is filling quickly as the weather outside shifts from a slow trickle of rain to a full-blown lightning storm. She scans the room and observes the diversity of the crowd and its different nationalities. Her father never discriminated against anyone despite the tumultuous social climate that seemed to be in the forefront of the daily news. Just yesterday, she’d read about a civil rights peace march that resulted in police brutality and several arrests. Today, in this solemn place, everyone sits side by side to mourn the loss of a common friend.

When her father was alive, he had made it a point to never go to church. He’d always complained about the hypocrisy of it all and refused, as he put it, to succumb to the opium of the masses. Odd that this would be his final resting place. He’d always encouraged Laylah to keep an open mind, explore, and think outside of the box, which she rarely did. While her father would frequently take mini breaks to Europe and the Middle East to meet new people and catch up with old friends, she never considered venturing out of her sheltered world where she was perfectly content with the monotony of day-to-day life with her father.

Her normal routine consisted of the following: waking up every day at 8:15 a.m., making coffee and breakfast for herself and her father, sitting in the passenger seat as he drove her to school and they discussed the latest breaking news, exchanging the see-you-later kiss on the cheek, and then a few hours later, getting picked up from school by him. She slowly comes to the unsettling realization that the only person she ever really interacted with was her father! He had been her any and everything, her best friend, and maybe possibly only friend, her mentor… her religion.

He was the Great Garrett Wade Quentin.

Looking back, he seemed invincible, incapable of defeat or death, even after the unthinkable happened, and her mother mysteriously abandoned their family. She left when Laylah was only nine years old, forcing her to take care of herself, and, in her mind, her father as well. She cooked, cleaned, and did everything within her power to help her father erase the memory of the woman who nearly destroyed them both. He never explained why she left or where she went, and Laylah never asked. To the best of her knowledge, her mother had been relatively happy living with them, and she could never remember her parents having any kind of verbal altercations at all. One morning she woke up, and she was just… gone.

She suspected her parents had their differences, with her mother being such a painfully introverted woman, and her father a self-professed social butterfly. Whenever they had any sort of gathering at their house, her mother would always retire early for the evening to the library to read any one of her hundred novels, while her father would always stay awake to the early hours of the morning entertaining their guests. As far as her and her mother’s relationship went, she couldn’t say with any real remorse that she was sad to see her go. In a strange way, it was almost like she’d never existed at all. Her mother had always been a bit distant, and the majority of their quality time consisted of them sitting in chairs across from one another, reading a book.

In retrospect, it amazed Laylah how her mother could find so much joy in the isolation of her library rather than actual quality time with her husband and child. She would have felt unwanted or in the way if it weren’t for her father who constantly showered her with attention. Every weekend when he wasn’t away, he would take her to the zoo to watch and discuss the exotic animals or the park to fly kites. He made his love for her no secret, and there was no doubt that he adored the ground she walked on; unlike her mother, whose melancholic demeanor made it difficult to determine her feelings toward her or anybody. Just when Laylah was beginning to feel like an unhappy chapter in her life had finally ended, she receives the most unexpected of all phone calls in the middle of her calculus class. The principal pulled her into the hall and, in a somber tone, explained that her father was found in his office face-down, unconscious, and had been rushed to the emergency room at the local hospital. There had been no hesitation; she tore through crowds of disgruntled teenagers, scaled fences, and dodged traffic in an attempt to reach him.

Let us kneel and bow our heads to pray.

A strangely familiar voice intrudes her thoughts, and she looks up to the center of the stage. Peering over his podium is the same priest from her father’s hospital room. He’s a young and lanky blond man wearing black, of course, his white collar peeking through the fabric on his neck. The booming of the thunder outside seems to accentuate his voice. He looks up twenty feet to the musty mahogany ceiling of the cathedral with his arms stretched out wide, and Laylah feels uncomfortable witnessing this counterfeit Christ reenactment.

I know, oh Lord, that a man’s life is not his own! he bellows.

It is not for man to direct his own steps! Jeremiah 10:23… he takes a long dramatic pause.

Oh, Father, please direct our steps as we try to go on without our brother Garrett! We would never dare question your reasons for taking one of your most faithful and diligent workers! We know everything is a part of your perfect and glorious plan! Please, most gracious Lord, be with us in this dire time of need!

"Brother Garrett?" She snorts out a laugh, catching the attention of Uncle Harold who’d been gazing out of an intricately designed stained glass window. She quickly looks down at her hands and clears her throat.

Never question, God! Um. No. If anything, he’s the one we need to be trying to get some answers out of! Faithful worker! Who is this guy? Did he even know my father? Her temper starts to flare at the thought of a complete stranger making presumptions about her father.

But what if . . . she suddenly wonders. Could he have been a secret Catholic?

Nonsense! We never had secrets. He would have told me if he converted . . . right? She becomes unsettled at the possibility of her father having a secret life hidden from her. What if he did have secrets? Could it be possible for him to have another totally different existence once he dropped her off at school? Had he remarried? Even worse, did he have another child! That thought sends cold chills under her skin and raises the hair on the back of her neck. She abruptly turns in her pew and scans the room again for anyone who might be younger than her or even vaguely resembles her father.

Ridiculous. The grief must be making me delusional, she rationalizes.

Our life is but a mist! the priest continues. "We must do God’s will with the allotted time that the Almighty has given us! I ask you, dear children, what have you chosen to do with what’s left of your time?"

She’s zoning in and out, with only certain words catching her attention: mist, children, God, time . . . She wonders if the sermon is intended to make people contemplate suicide, because if she were standing on the edge of one of those bell towers, she just might jump.

Dear children, we all have a destiny! Perhaps not all of us can prosper as fruitfully as our brother Garrett. But I believe we can all strive for greatness!

Fruitful. That was one way to put it. Garrett Quentin had been sort of a maverick and strategic businessman. He prided himself on being the underdog, having come from the bottom up and virtually building an empire with his law firm. He’d started out conducting business in an attic office over a café, but because of his contagious initiative, he won some crucial cases, built an outstanding reputation, and eventually expanded his firm to a fully renovated high-rise in the most prestigious part of the city of Madison, Wisconsin. He accrued a substantial amount of faithful clientele from endorsing Little League teams and fund-raising to build parks. In fact, the park he and Laylah frequented the most was named after him.

They lived in what most would consider a mansion, with eight bedrooms, five bathrooms, a library, his home office, expansive gourmet kitchen, billiard room, parlor, and piano room in a gated community with immaculate streets. Laylah attended a private school called Lancelot High School. The majority of the people in their neighborhood are lawyers, doctors, or affiliated with a bank. Her father had five cars, owned houses and apartments in Paris, New York, Connecticut, California, and Miami. He was an art collector and owned over fifty thousand dollars worth of original pieces that hung in various places in their home. Strangely enough, he never acted superior or arrogant about his success; rather, he still frequented the same restaurants and theaters he went to prior to making all his money.

He was charismatic, able to strike up a conversation with anyone about anything and, standing at six feet five with broad shoulders and silver-streaked hair, his very presence demanded attention and reverence. He was a thrill seeker and a true believer in the philosophy of living life to the fullest. Laylah took comfort in knowing that he had accomplished everything he had sought out to do in life. Well, almost everything.

She has a flashback to a night when she was younger, and her father was tucking her into bed. He opened a copy of James and the Giant Peach and started reading where he’d left off the night before. Then completely out of the blue, he stopped and stared at her very closely.

My little one is growing up, he’d said.

Dad, I’m still in elementary school.

I know, but I remember when you couldn’t even talk or walk—

Or ride a bike, or play piano. I know, I know, Laylah continued with a smile. Why do you always bring that up?

Well, honey, he’d said with a sigh, I guess when I see you getting older, it reminds me that I’m getting old too.

You’re not old, Daddy!

Well, honey, I’m getting there. He’d laughed while smoothing down wild strands of her hair. One day, when you’re a big girl, you’ll go to college, get a job, and you’ll meet a man and want to marry him.

Like Mommy wanted to marry you!

Yep…

I wish I could’ve been at your wedding.

Well, shoulda, coulda, woulda, he’d joked. Yours is going to be ten times better, I promise. You’re going to wear a fancy white dress, and Daddy is going to walk you down the aisle to give you away.

Give me away!

"Yes, honey, to your husband, so he can start taking care of you."

Like you take care of me?

I suppose…

Nobody can take care of me like you, Daddy! She’d lifted his arm and nuzzled under his armpit, giggling.

He’d laughed too. Well, I have to agree with you, little one. I have to agree.

A crack of thunder rouses her back to her disturbing reality and makes everyone jump. The priest’s eyes widen, and he raises his voice to an unbelievable octave.

Father, give us strength to persevere through our grief! Only you, most righteous one, can make us whole again!

Yes, Lord! Aunt Leanor blurts out. Her hands are clasped tightly together as she rocks back and forth, staring intently at the young priest.

Funny, Aunt Leanor didn’t come across as very spiritual in the short time they’d had to get to know each other. By the way she’s dressed, black fishnet stockings and a clingy low-cut dress, she figured her dear aunt wasn’t a frequent visitor of church at all.

Strengthen our faith so that we too can one day go to the promised land like our dear brother Garrett! He gestures to a large object in an unlit part of the stage behind him that Laylah hadn’t noticed and can’t quite identify.

Protect our hearts, Most Precious Savior, and heal our pain!

Yes, Lord! Aunt Leanor yelps while throwing her hands up in the air.

What is that thing? Laylah wonders as she squints her eyes into the darkness and tries to get a better look. It looks like some sort of box perhaps. If I didn’t know better I’d think it was a . . .

You alone my God can deliver us and save our wretched souls! he barks.

Oh my God, save me! Aunt Leanor screams and bolts up out of her seat, gasping for air, taking frantic breaths.

A coffin, Laylah whispers. The blood drains from her face, her spine stiffens, and the tears come uncontrollably now. She feels the sickness rising from the pit of her gut up to her throat.

Aunt Leanor’s knees buckle, and Uncle Lloyd reaches to catch his wife as she spirals to the floor. The thunder roars, shaking the

building and startling everyone inside. As the priest continues to rant, the lights flicker, and Laylah can no longer control the tremors causing chaos in her stomach. She falls forward and heaves out what’s left of last night’s turkey sandwich on Aunt Tanya’s satin black skirt, causing her to shriek and hurl the heavy clutch purse she’d been holding into one of the delicate windows. The glass scatters everywhere as a violent rush of wind swoops into the church, blowing paper programs into funnels of disarray.

Look there—the priest points to the broken window with wild eyes—a sign from the Almighty! He’s come to take us to the promised land!

Stampedes of agitated parishioners rush into the aisles trying to escape out through the back exit, fumbling over one another. The zealous priest is drowned out by the screams from the frightened crowd. Aunt Leanor lay unconscious in her husband’s arms as he attempts to revive her with a folded eulogy pamphlet. Uncle Harold is fervently wiping Aunt Tanya’s skirt with an expensive-looking handkerchief from his suit’s jacket pocket while she whimpers with disgust. The police have abandoned their post in the front entrance to come see what’s causing such a ruckus inside, only to be stampeded by the mob trying to escape.

Everybody, remain calm! screams one officer.

Return to your seats! hollers another.

No one pays them any attention.

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The ride home is very much like the ride to the church, filled with quiet, palpable tension. The reception was supposed to be held in her house, in the living and parlor rooms.

No one came.

Laylah speeds up the stairs to her room to take solace under the sheets of her bed and stays there the remainder of the week. She weeps in sporadic intervals for what feels like hours. The image of her father’s casket, so fresh in her mind, seems to outweigh all the other catastrophes that has taken place that morning. Knowing that his body was lying there, stiff and cold, made his death all too real. She just can’t believe he’s really gone! Everything had seemed fine! He seemed healthy. But what does she know? She isn’t a doctor. She keeps searching her memory for any time she can remember him complaining about chest pain or mentioning an upsetting doctor’s diagnosis. Nothing came to mind. He ate right; Laylah saw to that personally, and he and Laylah would take frequent long walks during the week to talk.

Her thoughts abruptly turn on herself; she wonders if perhaps she’d done something to cause the attack. Maybe she’d been too demanding or too imposing. Maybe she should have made orange juice instead of coffee in the mornings for him. Maybe she should have taken the bus instead of making him drive her to school every day. Maybe she should have insisted he have more consistent doctor appointments.

Shoulda, coulda, woulda. She can almost hear him say. He could be cynical at times. Whatever the case right now, the fact remains that he’s gone and never coming back.

The storm outside has ceased, and Laylah lies sprawled out on her bed, staring at the ceiling with bloodshot eyes. In this moment, she remembers a saying her father always used: It has to get worse before it gets better.

Right now, she couldn’t agree more.

Laylah can say with complete confidence that this has been the worst week of her young life. Her father is dead, and the Quentin family reputation is indefinitely tarnished due to their performance at the funeral. An ambulance had to be called for Aunt Leanor, and she was taken to Madison County Hospital. There the doctors claimed she just had a severe vertigo episode that made her collapse. Uncle Harold and his new wife took up shop in a guest room on the first floor, and she can hear the clicking of her aunt’s high heels on the tile below as she hurries around the house directing the movers.

The few times that Laylah has left her room this week, she’s nearly been trampled over by large brutish men lifting and removing furniture from various places in the house. When she asked her uncle where they were taking it, he would simply pat her on the head and tell her not to worry about it, that it was going to a special storage unit.

Uncle Harold has got it under control, he would say with a gap-toothed smile.

The constant influx of people does nothing to curb her disposition. She feels alone for the first time in her short life, and as a result, she finds herself changing. She ambles aimlessly in a black abyss of anguish. An excess of emotions swell in her hollow being. Unrelenting loneliness overwhelms her with grief that’s compounded by a bitter nagging confusion. Each feeling intensifies and pushes her to the brink of despair but then subsides and slides her back down to inconsequential placidity. Her father’s aching absence tears at her fragile soul and beckons her deeper into misery and gloom. This is pain. This is death.

For days, neither the phone nor the doorbell rang. It was beginning to seem as though the world had forgotten her, until one afternoon, when she heard laughter in the hall downstairs. She cracks her bedroom door open and peeks out. At the bottom of the stairs stands her uncle Harold and her father’s attorney Virgil Seymour. They seem to be excited about something, slapping each other’s back and shaking hands, almost as if they’re congratulating one another for something. She stares at them a long while, straining to hear what they’re saying. They go into her father’s office and close the door. She tiptoes down the stairs and creeps around the corner, trying not to step on the wooden floorboards that creaked. When she reaches the solid mahogany double doors, she presses her ear to one, concentrating to make out any coherent sentences but hearing nothing.

Something feels very wrong: from the movers coming in and out of the house and taking her father’s furniture and art, Uncle Harold and his wife’s sudden interest in her well-being, and now her father’s oddly jubilant attorney making a house call. She has to get to the bottom of this. Sucking in a deep breath, she places a steady hand on the doorknob and slowly turns it, pulling it ever so slightly open to see the two men, one leaning back in her father’s leather wingback chair with his shiny shoes propped up on his desk. The other man is sprawled out on the adjacent couch, smoking a cigar and laughing loudly between puffs.

The old dog finally kicked the bucket! said Virgil with an exhausted sigh.

I can drink to that! Uncle Harold reaches over and pours himself a sloppy cup of liquor, spilling most of it on the floor, making no attempt to clean it up.

And not a day too soon. He sips, lets out a large belch, and continues. I’m not doing too good, Virg. I got a bad tip, and now my stocks are falling—big time! I’m nearly bankrupt! He takes a big gulp and refills the glass.

Does Tanya know?

Hell, no! You think she’d be with me if I didn’t have money? He snorts and rolls his eyes. No way, man, no way! If it ain’t designer, she ain’t happy, and if she ain’t happy, I ain’t happy, you catch my drift.

All women are the same, man.

Who you tell’n, she’s my fourth wife!

No wonder you’re going broke! They give each other a knowing look and chuckle under their breath.

I tell you what, somebody up there in heaven must like me ‘cause now that Garrett’s dead, we’re gonna be rolling in dough! They both laugh.

"By the way, Virg, how much did he leave me?"

If I had to guess—he runs his fingers through his curly gray hair then rests it on top of his massive belly—I’d have to say half—at least half to you and half to Lloyd.

"What do you mean ‘if you had to guess’—don’t you know? You were his attorney twenty years for Christ’s sake!"

He never let me look at it, he stammers. "Whenever I would ask about it, he would get all defensive and tell me not to make his will my concern until after he was dead."

Uncle Harold is on his feet now, pacing. If that jerk didn’t leave me anything so help me— he stops abruptly. What about that little girl of his?

What about her?

Well, how much do you think she’s gonna get?

Depends…

On what?

On how much he thought she was worth! Virgil roars with laughter at his own joke while Uncle Harold stands silently, apparently not amused.

Look, even if Garrett didn’t leave you that much, you’re still gonna make a bundle off all his paintings and furniture you’re selling.

Selling! Laylah slaps her hand over her mouth to smother the gasp threatening to escape her lips. Her head starts spinning with anger and disgust.

That horrible, lying, despicable, disgraceful, sorry excuse of a man! her thoughts scream, and her face feels like it’s being engulfed in flames.

Well, that’s it then, this is about money! And not just anybody’s money—her father’s money. He had spent thirty years putting his blood, sweat, and tears into his business so that he could build this life for him and Laylah, and in one week, it’s being auctioned away to strangers.

What is he going to do with the house, or even worse, with me? Her anger is suddenly overshadowed by fear. Where is she going to live? Her options of a new household are slim pickings. It’s either live with Uncle Harold, the crook and his gold-digging wife who stares disapprovingly at her whenever she thinks Laylah isn’t looking, or stay with silent Uncle Lloyd and his hysterical wife. She feels nauseous again. She had been so consumed with grief that she had completely forgotten about what was supposed to happen afterward. She doesn’t want to live with any of these awful people, and she’s almost 100 percent certain that they don’t want her to live with them either. So stands the dilemma… what now?

Well, I guess we’ll just have to wait and find out tomorrow at the will reading, Uncle Harold says, mimicking her thoughts.

I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about, Harold. You two were brothers, and Garrett was all about family values and all that nonsense.

I guess you’re right… He plops back down on the plush couch, which most likely won’t be there in the morning, and he sips something from the cup that makes him wince. He used to say, we always take care of our own, Harold! Ha! We always take care of our own…

Laylah sulks back up the stairs to her room, closes the door, and just stands still, staring at the wall. She wants to scream, she wants to cry, she wants to run away—but she can’t move.

How could people be so cruel? she wonders.

The word orphan suddenly enters her thoughts. Is that what she is now? If you don’t have parents or anyone to take care of you, that makes you an orphan, right? Had her father made provisions for her in the event he passed away before she was an adult?

It depends on how much he thought she was worth. She could hear Virgil Seymour say. He had loved her, that she knew for sure, but how much? She would have to wait and see tomorrow. In the meantime, she decided to pack up her things and hide them away just in case Uncle Harold’s movers came in the night while she was asleep.

CHAPTER 2

She’s in the cathedral again. The rain outside is beating against the building. The thunder resonates loudly, and the lighting makes white light bounce off the walls inside the pitch-black sanctuary. She is in her nightgown, walking down the aisle alone. It’s cold, and chill bumps begin to form all over her skin. She steps forward to the open casket and forces herself to look down. Her father lay there, untouched by time, in his favorite three-piece pinstriped gray suit with his arms folded over his lap. She has the urge to climb inside and close the top down so she can die and be buried with him. She feels the tears beginning to pool under her eyes, and she starts to turn and walk away until she hears her name. She turns and looks around to see who it can be but sees no one.

Laylah.

She knows that voice. It’s the voice that she woke up to every morning and went to sleep with every night—her father. Her spine stiffens, and she can barely breathe. She makes herself turn around, and sitting up, staring her directly in the eye is Garrett Quentin.

Daddy. She can’t believe her eyes.

He playfully swings his legs over the side of his casket, reclines his back against the top, and smiles.

You don’t look so good, little one. He bites his bottom lip and examines her up and down, with his eyebrows scrunching together. What’s wrong? he asks with genuine aloofness.

She doesn’t know what’s more shocking, the fact that he has somehow risen from the dead or the fact that he has no idea how horrible her life is without him.

Daddy— she starts then chokes on the word. Daddy, since you left, everything started going wrong. Your brother Harold and his wife Tanya have been selling all our belongings, and I think I’m going to be homeless soon! She takes in a deep, shaky breath.

They’re glad you’re dead, and all they care about is your money! I don’t know what to do, and you’re not here to help me… I need you to come back!

She’s sobbing and trembling nonstop now. Garrett looks at her a long while, expressionless, and drums his fingers along the side of his casket.

That is upsetting, he says finally. But I suppose I suspected as much from them.

Laylah gives him a bewildered look. What do you mean?

He’s my brother, little one, I know him very well. I’m sorry that you have to go through this, honey, but I’m afraid I can’t come back.

Why not? she pleads.

It just doesn’t work that way, honey. His gaze drifts away from her to the storm outside. This is where I belong now, little one. His voice sounds very far away suddenly even though he hasn’t moved.

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