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Tyson’s shoulder for support. “How’s my favorite free lawyer doing?”
    â€œI’m fine, Mother.”
    Mother Scott cocked her head to the side. “Baby, stop lying in the house of the Lord.”
    â€œMother—”
    Mother Scott cut him off with a revelation of her own. “You tell that lie every time I ask you. You’re not fine. You’re in love, but you’re too stubborn to give love.”
    Being lost for words wasn’t a common occurrence for Tyson. He’d presented opening and closing arguments with ease, but Mother Scott left him tongue-tied.
    She patted Tyson’s stomach. “You need to push that plate back and pray until God delivers you. And a healing from your childhood wouldn’t hurt, either.”
    â€œB—b—but, Mother,” Tyson stuttered, “I never told you about my childhood.”
    The innocent smile that appeared would make one think Mother Scott was gentle as a dove, but Tyson knew better.
    â€œBaby, don’t you know I can see? Since Kevin fixed my natural eyesight, my spiritual discernment is double twenty-twenty. I see right through you. You love the Lord, but you need to practice what you read about in the big black Bible underneath your arm.” Then Mother Scott served the benediction. “I’ll see you later. I need to go lay hands on Marlissa’s and Starla’s stomachs. Those babies are future prayer warriors.”
    For the second time in three days, a woman left Tyson standing with his mouth hanging open.

Chapter 5
    Shivering, cold, and more humiliated than the night she’d been arrested, Reyna stepped barefoot into the foyer at her mother’s house. To add insult to injury, the unpredictable California October weather had dropped twenty degrees. If her arms weren’t sore from the awkward positions Chase—if that was even his real name—had twisted her into, she would have slapped herself for not taking her coat. She wouldn’t have minded the cold air as much if the disdainful stares she received as she walked through the Claremont Hotel hadn’t reminded her of how foolish she’d been. The hotel’s Sunday morning guests were more conservative than the Friday night private party crowd. During daylight hours people with her clothing attire weren’t allowed. When a hotel employee approached her with a security officer in tow, Reyna had removed her shoes, had tucked them beneath her arm, and had run through the lobby, out of the hotel, and into the parking lot to her car. Once inside it, she’d leaned her head on the steering wheel and wept.
    Hot tears had burned her cheeks as she sped down Ashby Avenue en route to her mother’s house of judgment. While waiting at a stoplight on Martin Luther King Jr. Way, she stopped crying long enough to spit profanities at the church building on the corner. She’d never been inside of the stucco building; neither did she know anyone affiliated with the house of worship. None of that mattered. Her dysfunctional life was the result of a self-centered God. In her opinion, God was a controller and a user. He demanded all of your time and bombarded you with rules and regulations with no reward.
    Her tires screeched as she entered the next intersection. She’d made a mistake this time around, but she would never step foot inside a church again. Not even a park service. She would continue on her self-discovery journey without the help of a narcissistic God.
    Now, as she stood in the foyer with chattering teeth, Reyna had to figure out how to escape to the confines of her room without running into her mother. It was 8:00 A.M ., and Jewel was probably in her prayer closet, interceding for Sunday worship service. If Reyna wanted to avoid a tongue-lashing for staying away all weekend, she’d have to hurry. With shoes in hand, she scurried across the hardwood floor.
    Reyna hadn’t made it halfway down the hall when