Where Was God on May 15, 1974? It was one year after the Roe V. Wade decision. She was 12, the daughter of a poor rural Arkansas Baptist preacher, and pregnant by the son of the state's wealthiest family when her first life ended.

In Honor of my late friend: Ms. Cicely Tyson

I am blessed and honored to have known you, shared years of friendship, and am still a beneficiary of your grace and constant encouragement. Of all the things you said, this was most awe-inspiring:

"I have not been so moved by a story, since reading Alex's [Haley] book [Roots].
When the film is made, I'm laying claim to the role of Aunt Rose."

While time and fate have rendered that but a lasting and resounding expression of love for this story, it remains in my heart, for always. I will always see Aunt Rose as you.

In Brief:
When the pregnant 12-year-old daughter of a black southern preacher fingers the son of the state's wealthiest family, she's exiled to Chicago relatives, defiantly returns 14-years later targeted for murder by that family—clinging to their Confederate heritage.

Chapter One Excerpt or Full Chapter One

In Her First Life - May 15, 1974 Rural Reedville, Arkansas.
"Fear seized her like a claw."

'Bout a mile from The Sticks,
three miles from Reedville, proper, Jonathan Jefferson Reed's old '62 Ford
pickup just set there—a rusting hulk held together with baling wire and
a prayer. The sun-bleached, blue heap hugged the edge of a large circular
clearing, nearly surrounded by a sentry of towering Arkansas pine.

Nothing moved. Nothing. Damn truck looked downright abandoned.
Always did, moving or not. The old wreck was an unlikely means of transportation
for the son of one of the most powerful families in Arkansas. Not
surprising, since Jonathan's parents discouraged him from flaunting his
wealth in the face of those who had so little.

Just then, Jonathan's scrawny, naked, pale-white backside—with nearly
protruding vertebrae—appeared in the lowered driver's window. Inside
the seedy truck cab, carpeted with fast food wrappers and the decomposed
remains of unidentifiable crawling critters, the thick, hot air reeked of
musty sneakers, sweaty private parts, and unshaved armpits.

Jonathan kicked open the creaky door and backed himself out onto
the parched ground. His wet skin sizzled in the unforgiving heat. He drew
the back of his right hand across his dripping brow, swiped it on his right
pant leg.

Sixteen-year-old Jonathan Jefferson Reed, whose middle name was
given to honor the only President of the Confederacy was nearly six feet,
barely a hundred thirty pounds, brains and all. Like a soiled mop turned
upside down, his stringy, rusty blond hair fell past a pimply face to just
above sloping shoulders.

Jonathan closed the door, yanked up his faded Levi's, and tucked
'himself ' back inside. He zipped his fly; slipped his white, Harley Davidson
T-shirt over his hairless, sunken chest; then buckled his overlapping belt.
He paused, glanced back at the beautiful, sweat-soaked black girl. She sat
slouched in the passenger seat, breathing heavily, staring into her lap with
vacant eyes. Her bra was in place, but much of her taut, flawless, creamy-brown
skin was exposed.

At 12-years-old, Deborah Yvonne Davis had the sweet, innocent face
of a young girl, but the fetching body of a woman, years older. It was her
blessing and her curse—things that escaped her daily awareness.
Jonathan stared long and hard, savoring the sight of Deborah. His
bowed erection was still at full bore. A look of self-satisfaction covered
his pockmarked face. With a cocky swagger, he reached through the open
window, touched Deborah's shoulder with unsure fingertips. She flinched,
leaned away. Deep frowns etched her glistening brow...