Shards of betrayal, p.1
Shards of Betrayal, page 1
SHARDS OF BETRAYAL
A LANIE PRICE MYSTERY
PERSIA WALKER
Copyright © 2025 by Persia Walker
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
For Margaret, Kathleen and Gina
CONTENTS
About This Book
Cover Description for Accessibility
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Epilogue
About the Author
Also by Persia Walker
ABOUT THIS BOOK
Filmmaker Seth Carter is a maverick determined to bring authentic Black stories to the silver screen. But when reporter Lanie Price visits the set, she uncovers a campaign of sabotage that threatens both the film and the people behind it.
Seth begs her to keep quiet, pulling her into a professional and personal dilemma that could cost her everything—including the man she loves.
Shards of Betrayal is a gripping noir mystery set in the perilous glamour of 1920s Harlem, where ambition can be deadly and truth comes at a price.
COVER DESCRIPTION FOR ACCESSIBILITY
A glamorous actress from 1920s Harlem sits at a vanity table. She wears pearls and a black gown.
Her short waved hairstyle and deep red lipstick evoke the allure of a classic film star. Her face is calm but guarded, suggesting hidden secrets.
The scene is styled like a noir film, with soft shadows and vintage lighting.
The title is in bold gold letters. The subtitle reads “1920s Noir • A Lanie Price Mystery.”
There’s the truth you tell them.
And the one you carry with you after they’re gone.
PROLOGUE
Let me tell you about Seth. He made films on a shoestring and I mean the thinnest shoestring you’ve ever seen. No fancy studios for Seth Carter—he shot in friends’ houses, abandoned offices, anywhere he could get decent lighting for free. There’s this staircase in some buddy’s house where he filmed half of Soul Redemption. Why? Best light angles in town.
Seth rented his equipment by the day because that’s all he could afford. No retakes, minimal editing. Those flubbed lines and misspelled credits you see in his films? They stayed in because every penny counted.
His wife, Grace Lewis-Carter, was his leading lady in most films—and she had real star quality. Together, they made a fine team. One morning Seth dragged Grace out to some fancy white neighborhood when nobody was home, just to get footage of her in front of an elegant house. Another time, he borrowed some society lady’s fur coat while she was in a meeting—had Grace wear it for a quick scene. That was Seth all over—resourceful to the bone.
The man taught himself everything about filmmaking—each shot captured in stolen moments, each scene a patchwork of ingenuity and improvisation. He had a knack for making it all work somehow. He was always hustling, always thinking three moves ahead.
But what he really understood was people.
He’d go door to door selling his vision, just like he used to peddle his novels to white farmers and black communities down South. When he needed money for a film, he’d show up at theaters with his actors in tow, have them act out scenes right there in the manager’s office. Hard to say no to that kind of showmanship.
Seth was pure electricity in person. Could charm the shoes off your feet while you were still wearing them. Sure, his company was always running on fumes financially, but his personality and nonstop hustle kept things afloat. He had to take money from white theater owners and investors—“angels,” they called themselves—but Seth never lost control of his stories.
The stories themselves? That’s where Seth and his younger half-brother, Clay, really shined. Clay Harper had a way with words, could spin out scripts that kept audiences on the edge of their seats. Between Clay’s writing and Seth’s vision, they tackled issues other filmmakers wouldn’t touch—lynching, racial passing, prostitution, addiction. They wove current events and controversial topics into plots that felt real, felt urgent.
Seth showed the complicated, messy stuff that sets black against black, the ironies and painful truths others avoided. His films weren’t always pretty, but they were honest. While everyone else was trying to put on a good face, Seth was holding up a mirror to reality. Sometimes that mirror showed things people didn’t want to see, but Seth never flinched. That was his power.
In the end, it turned out to be his curse too.
CHAPTER 1
The Bronx was a furnace that July. Inside the warehouse, ten degrees hotter. Sweat pooled at my spine the minute I stepped onto the Soul Redemption set. I breathed in sawdust, hairspray, greasepaint. The scent of ambition and last chances.
The heat didn’t stop the crew. Grips hauled cables. Costumers darted between actors, straightening collars, fixing hemlines. The place buzzed with that particular kind of beehive chaos that looks like panic but isn’t. Everyone knew their job. Everyone moved with purpose.
Somewhere in that blur, Seth Carter was directing his latest film.
I wasn’t supposed to be there. I covered society for the Chronicle—teas, galas, scandals. But the regular film reporter was down with a bad cold. When Sam Delaney asked for a volunteer to interview Seth, I said yes.
Soul Redemption was already the talk of colored cinematic circles. A bold project, ambitious in scope, with a cast of complex, fully human colored characters. No maids. No comic relief. Seth meant to shatter the mold—and he just might do it.
I skirted a rack of costumes and nearly collided with a frazzled assistant carrying a tray of coffee. Somewhere behind the glare of lights and swarm of bodies, my interview waited.
The main filming area stretched out before me—a Harlem street scene, lovingly recreated. Storefronts lined a cobblestone path. A barbershop stood to one side, a jazz club interior on the other. On its stage, brass instruments caught the light. The craftsmanship was remarkable, all the more so because it was held together with spit and grit.
There he was. Seth Carter. Easy to spot once you knew what to look for—the only man on set who moved like he owned every inch of it. Tall, lean, sleeves rolled high. His hands carved shapes in the air as he spoke to a kid with a clipboard. Even twenty feet away, you could feel the energy coming off him in waves.
“Mr. Carter,” I called, stepping over a tangle of cords.
His gaze found mine. For just a second, that intense focus softened.
“Ah, Mrs. Price.” He extended a hand, grip warm but distracted. “Right on time.”
Up close, the picture changed. The energy was still there, but so were the costs. Drawn features. Shadows under his eyes dark enough to photograph. This was a man running on fumes and willpower.
The clipboard kid disappeared, leaving us our own small island of quiet.
“Looks like you’ve got your hands full.” I nodded to the whirlwind around us. “Impressive, what you’ve managed on limited means.”
He smiled again, a polite reflex, and shrugged. “Necessity breeds invention. We make do with what we have.” His gaze slid to the cinematographer adjusting a dolly shot. “In this business, you learn to be creative or you don’t survive.”
“Those Remington spotlights must have cost a pretty penny.”
“Found them in a warehouse in Jersey, if you can believe it.” He smiled again—this time, genuine—but it passed quickly.
“So, Mr. Carter—”
“Seth.”
“And I’m Lanie.” I smiled. “So, do you still have time for that interview?”
His gaze shifted back to me and he nodded, half-apologetic. “Of course. Walk with me.”
He led me through the controlled chaos, ducking cables, weaving past lights. The crew parted without being asked. Here and there, he paused to tweak a prop, murmur a note.
“Tell me about your crew.” Black and white, they moved together like gears in a well-oiled machine.
He shrugged. “Nothing fancy. I hire the ones Hollywood left behind. Out-of-work gaf
“Your actors. They’re not all professional actors?” I could tell just by the way they stood.
“Friends, family, locals,” he confirmed. “They’re raw but real. It’s cheaper, sure, but it’s also about authenticity. My wife, Grace, helps balance the scales—she’s got real training.”
We climbed a narrow staircase. Each step creaked underfoot. The noise from the set faded behind us, muffled by walls and distance. At the top, Seth opened a door to what passed for an office—cramped, hot, tucked into a corner like someone’s guilty secret.
A single window let in a sliver of late-afternoon light. Dust floated in it. Two desks stood shoulder to shoulder in the tight space. Both had typewriters, but that’s where the similarity stopped. One was chaos—scripts, call sheets, scribbled notes and open envelopes stacked like a paper avalanche. The other was sterile. Not a page out of place. One sealed envelope in the inbox. A script, neatly typed and centered, lay precisely centered in the outbox.
Seth dropped into a worn leather chair behind the first desk and nodded toward the seat across from him. The wood was scarred from use—arms worn smooth, corners dented. It had heard a lot.
“All right, let’s get to it.” He steepled his fingers. “What do you want to know?”
I sat, flipped open my notepad. “Let’s start with representation. You’re known for championing authentic portrayals of colored life on screen. Why does that matter so much to you?”
Obvious question. But obvious questions dig deep—if you let them.
He leaned back, hands still pressed together. “Because we’ve spent too long watching ourselves from the sidelines. Flat, easy roles—buffoons, mammies, savages. It’s how they keep us small. They show a fraction of who we are and call it the whole. But we’re more than that. We’ve got stories worth telling. Real ones.”
A good quote. I jotted it down without looking away. “And Soul Redemption? Is that what this film is all about?”
“Absolutely. This one’s personal. It digs into what’s real—the pain, the promise. It’s about two brothers: Cain and Abel Genesis—”
“You actually named them that?”
He gave a half-smile. “You know how it is. When it comes to our people, the Bible runs deep. Soon as folks hear those names, they think they know the ending. But that’s the trap. In this story, the parents curse the children before the first frame. They name them, then vanish. We never even see them.”
I nodded. “Go on.”
“Cain’s the elder. Hustler, survivor. Streets taught him what school never did—how to take what he needs and leave the rest bleeding. He gets pulled into crime. Not because he wants to, but because the game’s stacked and he’s tired of losing.
“Abel’s the opposite. Believer. Uplifts, educates, serves the community. The kind of man who thinks change starts with a book, not a bullet. He sees beauty even where there isn’t any.”
He paused. “The fight between them isn’t just personal. It’s everything we wrestle with—hope versus hunger, morality against the grind. Abel—”
A sharp knock cut him off.
Seth looked annoyed, excused himself and called out, “Come in.”
The door creaked open. A young man in thick work gloves leaned halfway in, sheepish.
“Sorry to interrupt, Mr. Carter. They’re ready for the next scene. And, uh—Mr. Westbrook needs to talk to you about the lighting setup.”
Seth glanced at me, then back at the grip. “Tell him I’ll be there in ten.”
The workman nodded quickly, his gaze darting to me before he backed and shut the door.
Seth settled back. “Now, where were we?”
“You were saying how the brothers’ choices reflect the community.”
“Right. Abel stands for the ideal—what we reach for. Cain’s the world as it is. The hunger. The compromises.”
“And in the end?”
“Well, let’s just say they don’t outrun the names they were given. They betray and nearly destroy one another. As much as they love one another, they cannot co-exist. One has to fall.”
He paused, eyes shadowed. “The real question is—who betrayed whom? And why? Was it jealousy? Was it fear? Or was it love poisoned by jealousy?”
His voice lowered. “This is us. Our reality. We turn on each other. Not always for greed. But the damage is the same. We stab each other in the back, do at least as much damage as Mr. Charlie. In fact, we often do Mr. Charlie’s work for him.”
I caught that moment of hesitation in his eyes—that split second of regret. Like he’d said too much. Like he wanted to claw the words back. But he didn’t.
I respected him for that.
I tapped my pencil against the pad. “That kind of statement might rile some folks. Think colored audiences are ready for that kind of mirror—us turning on each other? A public airing of our dirty laundry?”
“Truth’s not supposed to be comfortable. Change doesn’t come wrapped in ribbons. It comes with cuts and bruises. People only learn when it costs them something.”
“And white audiences? Do you care how they’ll take it?”
He paused. “I care. Some folks say I shouldn’t, but I do. I want them to see the truth, too. That we’re not some monolith, all smiles and struggle. We’ve got divisions, tensions. Just like them. Betrayal doesn’t come with a color—it’s a human thing. If they’re honest, they’ll see that.”
He shifted in his chair. “And then there’s the other part.”
“The box office.”
“Yeah. That’s the hard truth. More ticket sales means better films, better pay, steadier work for the crew. I can’t afford to make just an ‘artistic statement.’ I’ve got to keep the lights on. That means reaching a wide audience—getting butts in seats.”
“How do you plan to do that?”
He gave a half-shrug. “Talking to you is one way. Maybe you’ll be kind. Or fair, at least.”
I gave nothing away.
“Financing. Distribution. It’s all rigged. But I’ll work around it. I always have. Even if I’ve got to haul the reels from church basement to community halls, this picture’s going to be seen.”
He went quiet then, eyes on something past my shoulder. Then he squared his shoulders.
“It’s not about doing it easy. It’s about getting it done. About getting it seen. The world isn’t kind to folks like us—but that doesn’t mean we stop talking.”
He smiled, grim and determined. “No one’s going to hand it to us. We’ve got to take it.”
I glanced down at my notes. He’d given me what I needed.
Seemed he thought so, too.
“Well,” he said, rising from the chair, “I’ve got a set to run.”
I stood, slipped the notebook into my bag. “One last thing. Mind if I stay and watch for a bit? Get a better sense of your process?”
He hesitated—brief, but enough to catch. He hadn’t expected that. His eyes went to the door, then back to me.
“Might not be the best idea. Things get a little … chaotic out there. Don’t want the crew losing focus.”
The answer surprised me. And if I’m honest, rubbed the wrong way.
“Of course. But I can stay out of the way. I’m here to observe, not interfere.”
