All That Was Stolen

Prologue Chloe

My momma told me, three days before she died, that my father would kill her.

She said it with so much peace and quiet in her voice, it was like she had already settled her sins and just wanted to lay down her burdens.

We were sitting in the fading afternoon light.

She was plaiting my hair, tying the braids with pink silk bows.

Her hands were steady, even as her eyes darted toward the mahogany bedroom door, watching for my father—as if she expected him to burst in at any moment and grab her.

I was ten. I was terrified at the thought of her not being with me, but I didn't know how to form the words to say it. I cried since I couldn’t speak.

I always cried; I was a quiet, sensitive little thing, but Momma always called me her “brilliant baby.” She was my whole world.

She’d cook me the finest meals, buy me the prettiest dresses, and tuck me in every night with stories only the two of us knew.

Her love was a shield, keeping the world from touching my spirit. She used to sing to me when I was sick.

My father, on the other hand, meant nothing to me; I rarely saw him.

His empty chair at dinner became a fixture, a reminder that he was always "working" or simply gone.

He had taken control of the Florida food plant my grandfather left my momma to run when he died.

He claimed he worked hard for our family, but he was really just a parasite.

I don’t understand how she didn’t see it sooner.

Celeste Landry wasn’t a stupid woman; she had grown up with the best education and a Master’s in Business, but I guess she was just a woman trapped by a series of very stupid decisions—marrying my father despite my grandparents' objections being the first. They had seen through him, but by the time he showed his true colors, she had no family left to reach for.

Everyone except a few relatives was dead, and I was only five.

The old, powerful Creole money of New Orleans didn't matter when you were isolated in a glass-and-steel mansion in the humid heart of Florida.

"When I’m gone, Chloe," she whispered, leaning down until her breath, sweet with mint, brushed my ear. "You become a doll. Do you hear me?”

I didn’t answer.

“I can’t get you out; they watch my every move, even the breath that leaves my lungs now.

He’s tapped the phones, I think. He checks the bills to see who I’m calling.

He’s got the police thinking I’m crazy. You gotta be quiet.

A doll doesn't speak. A doll doesn't complain. A doll doesn't have a mind to break.”

My throat burned. She snatched that last braid tight.

"If you stay smart, they’ll kill you for your money just like he’s about to do to me," she said, her voice dropping. "But it won’t last him. He’s got a woman and child outside.

But don’t worry about that. If you’re 'broken,' they’ll keep you alive.

When the time comes and you see a crack in the door, take it.

Do anything to be free. The lawyer will come on the day you turn twenty-five. You tell him everything."

Three days later, my father came home after a six-month "business trip.

" I had fallen asleep in Momma's walk-in closet instead of going to my room like she’d told me. Their arguing woke me up. I peered through the slats of the mahogany door, my whole body shaking. I watched Daddy’s manicured hands press into the delicate silk of her robe as he shouldered her off the third-floor balcony.

I didn't scream. I didn't cry. I walked to my room, sat on the floor, and began to hum My Funny Valentine. It was her favorite song. It became my shroud.

Two days after her funeral, he moved his mistress, Ava, into the master suite, and his daughter, Olivia, into my room. I don’t know who was more evil, but they were both wicked. My father wasn’t much better, but at least his sentimentality kept him from abusing me the way they did.

I was moved to the old attic that my momma had turned into a playroom for me.

I became a ghost in a house that seven generations of my bloodline had owned.

The attic still had traces of my mother's touch—a faded mural of clouds on one wall and a dusty mobile hanging from the ceiling that had been left over from my crib.

I slept on a mattress as old as me. The toys had been cleared out years ago, though.

By the time I turned eighteen, the deed was in my name, but it didn't mean a thing since I was already a prisoner in my own home. I was ten when the devils moved in, and now I’m twenty-four, still playing my part.

The attic room is my world. To the world—to the doctors my father paid to sign the papers—I am "profoundly autistic" and "non-verbal." I am a tragic footnote in the Great Landry Estate. They keep me here because on my twenty-fifth birthday, my mother’s entire estate—nearly a billion dollars of free-people-of-color legacy—transfers to me. If I die before then, it goes to a trust they can’t touch. If I’m "incompetent," my father remains my permanent guardian.

So I’ve been waiting.

I counted the days in scratches on the wall.

I memorized the rotations of the moon through the frosted window.

I watched Olivia grow into a woman even meaner than the girl she used to be.

I watched Ava turn my mother's home into her own, and watched my father forget he ever had a first wife and a daughter at all.

For fourteen years, I’ve been the perfect doll. I sat still. I stayed quiet. I let them think they’d won. But they’re going to find out real soon—a doll might not speak, but she sees everything. And they only win if I stay quiet when the door finally opens.