Chapter 2

Rachel had lied to Joshua. Again.

As quickly as possible, she left home to go open her hair salon. The longer she stayed in Joshua’s presence, the worse she felt about what she’d done.

She backed her silver Acura TL out of the garage and drove away from the house, winding through the subdivision of spacious homes and large, winter-browned lawns. It was a quarter to seven, the December sun still in hiding. Although she loved the holiday season, she disliked the late sunrises at that time of year. A shower of golden sun rays as she drove to work might have lifted her spirits.

Or perhaps not. She was burdened with such heavy thoughts that morning that nothing would have improved her mood.

Why had she lied to Joshua? He was sweet, honest, and loyal, the kind of man she’d longed to meet and had doubted she would ever find. He deserved the best she could give him of herself. He deserved the truth.

But for so many reasons, she didn’t believe she could give it to him. Not yet.

Last night’s dream was fresh in her mind. After she’d awakened from the nightmare, Joshua believed she had fallen back to sleep, but when he shut off the lights she’d lain awake for much of the night, plagued by the macabre visions that scored her mind’s eye.

Was the dream a premonition? Yes, maybe. Hell, not maybe. Probably. She had a lifetime of experience with such things, and had learned to tell the difference between a dream that was a departure from reality—and a dream that foretold a possible reality.

She had to be careful, watchful.

In typical Atlanta fashion, traffic was already heavy on Camp Creek Parkway, the four-lane road that snaked past their neighborhood all the way to the marketplace where her salon was located. Cars poured onto Camp Creek from intersecting streets that supported an ever-increasing number of residential communities.

In her three years living in Atlanta, Rachel had watched the South side transformed from vast acres of silent fields and undisturbed forests of pine and elm into the metro area’s hottest slice of real estate. Some people complained about the rapid pace of growth, but Rachel welcomed it.

It was easier to stay hidden in a heavily populated area.

Stopping at a traffic light, Rachel flipped down the sun visor and examined her face in the mirror. She wasn’t looking for flaws, and she wasn’t planning to apply make-up—she had been blessed with a blemish-free complexion that required only a light touch of cosmetics.

She was inspecting her new look.

Before moving to Atlanta, she’d worn contact lenses, instead of the thin frame glasses she now sported. Auburn was her natural hair color, and her lush mane had previously hung to the middle of her back. Upon relocating, she’d dyed her hair black and trimmed it to a cute, curly ‘do.

If someone who’d known her before she came to Atlanta saw her today, they wouldn’t recognize her. She hoped.

She felt someone watching her, and she spun in her seat. An older man driving a Cadillac Escalade occupied the lane next to her. He winked and flashed a gold-toothed smile.

She ignored him and turned away. She was too damn jumpy and needed to calm down, get control of her day.

Ten minutes later, she parked in front of her salon, Belle Coiffure. The name was French for “beautiful hairstyle.” She and her business partner, Tanisha Banks, had opened the salon two years ago, and business had been booming from day one. Every time she arrived to work, she felt a rush of pride at how she’d achieved her dream.

Certain individuals from her past had doubted her abilities, had told her she’d never amount to anything on her own. As the saying went, living well was the best revenge.

The Open sign was already aglow, the interior track lights shining brightly. When Rachel pushed through the glass double-doors, she heard a gospel song by Mary, Mary rocking on the satellite radio, and saw Tanisha organizing magazines in the waiting area—copies of Essence, Hype Hair, Gospel Music Today, Ebony, and other glossy periodicals their clients read to pass the time.

“Morning,” Rachel said. “I didn’t expect you to be here already.”

“Hey, girl,” Tanisha said. “I’ve got a seven-fifteen. Otherwise, you know a sista wouldn’t be rollin’ in till eight.”

Tanisha was a tall, light-skinned sister in her mid-thirties, with a sprinkle of chocolate freckles across her cheeks and a hairdo that changed weekly. That week, her brown hair was styled in a twisted up-do with highlights that accentuated her hazel eyes. It looked fabulous, of course; Tanisha believed that each stylist’s own hair was their best means of advertising, and Rachel tended to agree with her.

Tanisha was the first friend Rachel had made when she’d moved to Atlanta. They had worked side-by-side at a shop in College Park. Both of them were driven, talented at their craft, and ambitious. It was only natural that they would decide to step out on faith and open their own salon.

Tanisha frowned at her. “You feelin’ okay? Your eyes are lookin’ kinda red.”

“I didn’t sleep well,” Rachel said, the understatement of the year. But she would never share anything about last night with Tanisha. Although Tanisha was a good friend, had been the maid of honor in her wedding, Rachel had drawn a firm line between what she would share with friends such as Tanisha—and what she would never share with anyone.

“When’s your first appointment?” Tanisha asked. “Maybe you can catch a catnap in the back.”

“I’ve got an eight-thirty, so I may just do that.”

Swinging her purse from over her shoulder, Rachel went down the center aisle of the salon, automatically surveying the sixteen stylist stations as she walked, to ensure that each would be ready for business when their stylists arrived. For most of the day, every chair would be occupied with a mix of walk-ins and appointments. If sistas believed in one thing, it was keeping their hair done—it was no surprise that Madame C.J. Walker, the inventor of the hot comb, had become America’s first black woman millionaire.

In the back, behind a door marked “Staff Only,” there was a supply closet, a staff lounge furnished with comfortable chairs, a sofa, a coffee table, and a TV, a restroom, and an enclosed office. The office contained a bank of filing cabinets and two desks, one for Rachel, the other for Tanisha.

Rachel plopped into the swivel chair in front of her desk. The sofa in the lounge did look inviting . . . but she was afraid to go to sleep, lest she have another nightmare about him.

Besides, there was something much more important that she intended to do first.

She unlocked the bottom drawer of her desk. Inside, there was a plastic bag from Walgreen’s Pharmacy, sitting atop a black metal case.

She took the grocery bag inside the restroom, opened it.

It contained an early pregnancy test kit.

Rachel bowed her head, whispered a prayer, and tore open the box.