JEWEL
Prologue
The heavy air inside the Westside Atlanta Baptist Church was thick with the scent of an assortment of funeral lilies and unspoken trauma. Up at the pulpit, Reverend Terry was doing what preachers do best —spinning tragedy into divine poetry, trying to make sense of a world that made no sense.
"Brother Giovanni Evans was only allotted a quick minute on this Earth, amen," Terry boomed, his voice echoing off the stained-glass windows. "But his spirit is screaming out to us today! He’s snug inside God’s care, telling his family not to break down over this untimely departure!"
"Amen, Pastor!" the congregation chorused back on beat.
On the front pew, Twylah Evans wasn't hearing any of it. She was drowning. Her ten-month-old daughter, Jewel, whimpered in her arms, squirming against the suffocating weight of her mother’s grief. An elder deaconess reached over, her hands warm as she gently squeezed Twylah’s trembling shoulder, trying to anchor her. Tears tracked steady paths through Twylah’s makeup as baby Jewel looked around, wide-eyed and terrified by the sea of strange, solemn faces.
Suddenly, Associate Pastor Pierce tiptoed up to the podium, leaning in to whisper urgent tea into Terry’s ear. Terry listened, gave a subtle nod, and straightened his suit tie. He checked his gold watch.
"Church, Sister Twylah wishes to drop a few words before we wrap the eulogy," Terry announced, clearing his throat. "Sister, the mic is yours if you feel up to it."
Twylah handed baby Jewel over to her day-one bestie, Janelle, and stood up on shaky legs. "Lord Jesus, give me the strength," she mumbled under her breath as she dragged her feet up to the wooden podium. Terry gave her a reassuring pat on the back and stepped aside.
Twylah gripped the edges of the stand, exhaling a breath that shook her entire frame.
"Y'all knew my husband, Giovanni. You know he had a heart bigger than this whole city. Man would give you the shirt off his back if you needed it. And for him to get murdered in cold blood like some dog in these streets? It ain't right. It ain't fair. He left behind a ten-month-old baby girl who gotta grow up without a father now!"
Her voice cracked, turning into a raw sob, but the anger underneath was pure steel.
"The cops ain't got no leads. No suspects, no nothing. So I’m begging y'all—if you heard something, saw something, or know somebody who knows something... don't just sit on it. Drop a tip to APD. Call Pastor Terry. Hit my line. We will keep your name totally anonymous, I swear. Just help me catch the cold-hearted bastards who took my man."
She wiped her face with the back of her hand, her eyes locking onto the back wall. Her tone shifted from desperate to lethal.
"And to my husband... baby, my soul ain't gonna rest until I find the piece-of-shit bastards responsible for cutting your life short."
* * *
A year later, the grief was supposed to be a quiet ache, but the disrespect was loud.
Sunday service had just let out. Twylah, holding a now toddler-aged Jewel by the hand, was walking toward the heavy oak exit doors when Associate Pastor Pierce caught her by the arm.
"Hey, Twylah. Got a quick second?" Pierce asked, smoothing down his tailored jacket.
"Sure, Pastor Pierce. What’s good?"
"I know you’re still going through it with Giovanni, and honestly, I respect how you’ve been handling your business as a single mom," Pierce said, switching to his smooth-operator voice. "Which brings me to a personal question... You back on the market yet?"
Twylah blinked, letting out a dark, dry laugh. "Pastor, my life is still in straight shambles. Adding a man to this mess is toxic. My heart’s still six feet under. Wait... is this about the brother who plays the organ? 'Cause he’s been shooting his shot, and I already told him I ain't looking."
Pierce chuckled nervously, rubbing his chin. "Nah, not him. I’m speaking for myself. I know I’m easily thirty years older than you, but—"
"Hold up one damn minute!" Twylah snapped, stepping back as her eyes flared. "Ain't you married?! Yes, the hell you are! You’ve known me since I was in diapers, Pierce! What on God’s green earth makes you think I want an old, married man?!"
"Twylah, keep your voice—"
"My husband hasn't even been in the ground a full year, and you’re hitting on me in the house of the Lord?!" she yelled, backing him down. "You think because I’m grieving, I’m vulnerable and hard up? You a whole perverted creep! Don't you ever look my way again. Consider your church down one more member. Thanks for absolutely nothing!"
Twylah grabbed Jewel’s hand and stormed out into the sunlight, leaving the preacher frozen in his own sanctuary.
Chapter 1 — Pressure Point
Present day inside Westside High, the air conditioning was broken, and the social media drama was at an all-time high.
"So, class," the teacher asked, pacing the front of the room. "Why do you think people cyberbully on these platforms?"
Jewel Evans—now seventeen, sharp-tongued, and fiercely protective of her peace—raised her hand.
"Go ahead, Jewel," the teacher said.
"It’s insecure behavior, lowkey," Jewel said, leaning back. "People mask their own fake-ass lives by projecting power over folks they think won't hit back."
Two rows behind her, Shakira scoffed loudly and raised her hand, popping her gum. "I mean, cute answer, Jewel. But my take? Hurt people hurt people."
"Expound on that, Shakira," the teacher noted.
"Well, I got trolled on Instagram just yesterday," Shakira said, leaning forward with a fake sweet smile. "And it’s funny, because the same girl giving that deep-sounding answer right now was literally in my comment section dropping toxic trash."
Jewel whipped around in her seat, her eyes narrowing. "That’s a bold-faced lie, Shakira! You're always sub-tweeting and trolling me, bitch! Keep running your mouth and see what happens!"
"Oh, you mad mad?" Shakira sneered, pulling out her phone. "Don't make me pull up the digital receipts! It ain't my fault your daddy was a drug dealer who got clapped and robbed when you were a baby! Go get some therapy for that trauma, girl!"
The room went dead silent.
Jewel didn't think. She stood up, her desk scraping violently against the floor.
"Jewel Evans, don't you dare!" the teacher shouted, rushing forward.
Too late. Jewel bounced over the aisle and delivered a thunderous, open-handed slap straight across Shakira’s face—CRACK.
"Bitch! Didn't I tell you to keep my father's name out your mouth?!" Jewel screamed as Shakira lunged back, and the classroom exploded into chaos.
Ten minutes later, both girls were sitting in the principal's air-conditioned office, radiating pure heat. The principal slammed two thick folders onto his mahogany desk.
"Miss Evans, you initiated the physical violence," the principal grunted, staring at her rap sheet. "Your school record is wild. Fighting, screaming at teachers... what is the deep-rooted issue here?"
"She brought up my dead dad," Jewel said coldly, staring straight ahead.
"I get that it’s sensitive, but hands-off is the rule," the principal snapped. He looked over at Shakira. "Shakira, your record is clean minus some tardies. But as far as I'm concerned, you both built this fire. I want an apology from both of you, right now."
"Yes, sir," they muttered in unenthusiastic unison.
"Great. You’re both suspended for three days. Parents have been notified. Get off my campus. Jewel, you leave first—I need you two separated before a round two starts."
That is the opening. The sample continues free — take it with you.