He married Briana five years ago. “She works HR at a tech company,” he told me. Later I found out she’d been let go for performance issues and they called it a “mutual departure” to save face. Briana comes from a big family—five siblings, all still in the same South Atlanta neighborhood they grew up in. Her mama, Joyce, worked at the post office for thirty years. Her daddy passed when she was young. They were tight in that way that looks beautiful from the outside but runs hot on the inside.
The first time I met Briana, she walked into my house in Cascade Heights—the four-bedroom with a pool that said “I made it”—and did this thing with her eyes. She wasn’t admiring. She was appraising.
“Miss Moore,” she said sugar-sweet, “your house is so big. Must be lonely here all by yourself.”
Not “your home is beautiful.” Lonely. Like my success was a problem needing a solution.
Then she measured my living room windows. Literally. Pulled out her phone and took measurements.
When I asked what she was doing, she said, “Oh, just thinking about curtains. These are so dated.”
Terry laughed it off. “Briana’s an interior design enthusiast, Mama. She’s just trying to help.”
But Geneva Patterson—my best friend since 1985—was sitting right there on my couch and caught my eye. Geneva is sixty-seven now, sharp as a tack, with that gift Black church ladies have: she can smell a scheme from three counties away.
After they left, Geneva told me, “That girl is making a list.”
“A list of what?”
“Everything you got that she wants.”
I should’ve listened.
The red flags kept coming, and I kept making excuses. Like when Terry called asking about my estate planning.
“Mama, you got a will, right? Everything updated? Just want to make sure you’re protected.”
Protected. Not “I’m worried about you.” Protected, like I was cargo.
Or the time Briana posted on Facebook, “Sunday dinner at the family estate,” with a photo of my dining room. My dining room. She called it the family estate like it was communal property.
Or the way Terry started every conversation with, “How you feeling, Mama? You okay? Getting enough rest?” Not concern—documentation, like he was building a file.
The biggest red flag came from church. I’ve been a member of Grace Community Church for forty years, tithed faithfully—ten percent of every dollar I made. When Pastor Elijah Williams took over in 2015, he preached prosperity with a side of family-values pressure. Every Sunday: “Family is everything.”
Three months before I bought the beach house, Pastor Williams pulled me aside after service.
“Sister Alyssa, got a minute?”
