Free Without Faith by Leslie J. Sherrod

shown up at my front door at almost half-past six in the morning if he did not want something.
    â€œMs. St. James—I mean, Sienna—I am not trying to alarm you, or get you prematurely worked up. Yes, I am a reporter, but I am a fellow church member as well.”
    Was the man reading my mind? Probably my body language, I decided, forcing my shoulders to relax so as not to look defensive. He may have come here looking for answers, but I needed to get answers of my own.
    Where is my son?
    â€œPerhaps we can sit down and talk. I’ll tell you what I know, and you can tell me what you know.”
    I glanced at the mahogany grandfather clock—a housewarming gift from Ava—that graced the other side of my basement level entry foyer. 6:31. My first client was not due for another two hours, and I had already been planning to cancel while I tried to figure out where my son was.
    And Laz apparently had answers. And questions.
    â€œCome on up to my kitchen. We can talk while I fix a quick breakfast.” I finally closed the door behind him. I was nowhere near hungry, but my gut told me I needed strength for the journey.

Chapter 12
    â€œThe artwork continues.” Laz nodded as we left the entry level of my townhome and headed to the kitchen/ living/dining area of the second floor.
    At my old home, I’d kept on display the many artifacts of RiChard: trinkets; indigenous handmade crafts; colorful, mysterious pieces from every corner of the world that dotted my residence like scattered puzzle pieces that were supposed to make the whole of my life.
    My new home had none of that.
    I’d been brave, willing, disgusted enough to instead hang out the four major paintings I’d completed over the years, oil portraits I’d created based on random snapshots I’d taken; one of Roman as a sneaky toddler thinking he was not being watched as he stuck his entire little hand into a freshly baked cherry pie; the Wildwood, New Jersey seashore; an elegant elderly black woman dressed in all white, sitting at a bus stop in downtown Baltimore; and a purple, orange, and black-spotted butterfly I’d spotted years ago on a nature walk with my son.
    â€œYou’re gifted, Sienna. These pieces are exquisite.” He was standing in front of the lady on the bus stop picture, his head cocked to one side, his finger resting back on his bottom lip.
    In the nearly two years since I’d been in my new home, nobody had commented—or even seemed to notice—my work, not even Roman. Not even Leon. A part of me wanted to feel honored, flattered at Laz’s observations, but there was too much business at hand that needed addressing for me to give in to vain glory.
    â€œCoffee or tea?” I mumbled as I slammed a metal skillet on the stove to fix a quick batch of scrambled eggs.
    â€œHot chocolate.”
    â€œMy kind of man,” I replied without thinking, feeling immediately embarrassed for such a flirty response that I had not meant. I closed my eyes, as hot tears seared the back of my eyelids for some inexplicable reason. “I mean”—I opened my eyes again to face him—“I have no ill will toward anyone who respects chocolate.”
    â€œNow that’s my kind of woman.” Laz was all smiles as he nestled onto one of my breakfast bar stools at my extended granite kitchen island. His eyes seemed to pierce through mine, as if he was looking for something in them that would tell him all he needed to know.
    I turned away and let out an overdone chuckle, hoping that was the end of the awkwardness I’d created; but as I reached for my secret stash of Godiva hot cocoa, The Soul Mate Show flashed through my mind. Chocolate. Kwan/Brayden’s licking lips. Silver.
    Bang.
    I jumped at the memory of Brayden’s last words on the show, so much so that I dropped onto the floor the collection of mixing bowls for which I was reaching. The loud clatter of metal sent both of us