Blend

35:00 | sweet thing

"SO LET me get this straight." Detective Crawley crosses his arms, a flat line for tone. "You overheard a white guy bragging about how he killed Penelope Adams but you're unable to provide me with an adequate description of him."

I begin to fidget. Detective Crawley is one of those men who talks down to you for simply existing. With salty dark hair and eyes of blue steel, his foot begins to bounce behind his desk, signaling his impatience. I would've rather dealt with the woman but she yawned and pointed me in her partner's direction.

"Well it was dark and I was tired but, yeah."

"Tell him about the bite mark again!" Peewee barks. "Maybe he didn't hear it the first time."

I glance over at the ghost beside me. She's pacing like a restless jungle cat. It's making me more anxious. But at least she's the only powder-face in the vicinity—unlike the lobby, which had ten wandering spirits waiting around to talk to a living detective about their case. Who knows how long they've been at it. They seem to know that something bad has happened to them but they don't realize they're dead yet. Not in the same way Peewee does.

"Well, I do remember him saying he has a huge bite on his hand—on his right thumb—from when he covered her mouth. He was bragging about that, too."

The perp's hand is actually the only thing Peewee ever saw. The details leading up to her death are, of course, hazy. But she remembers a muscled white arm snaking across her face. She remembers his palm clapping her mouth and how she bit into him so hard she tasted blood. She remembers the moment he turned on the tub to mute her cries over the booming party music. And the last thing she remembers is the bash to her skull.

The detective blows out air, rubbing his seasoned face. He stops the recording device on the desk and leans forward in his chair. I lean away in response. His funk is strong.

"How sure are you that this guy was serious? That he wasn't just clownin' around?"

"Clowning around?" I echo.

"Yeah, you know," he says, shrugging, "like joking."

"You've gotta be fucking kidding," Peewee mutters. "The only clown I see is you, old man. Tell him that, Devy!"

Girl.

I shrug. "I mean, maybe. But it didn't sound like a joke."

He gives me a look—one that should have me questioning my sanity. But when you can see ghosts your whole life, that ship sailed forever ago.

"Okay, it sounds sketch," I admit. "But you've got the wrong guy. You have to trust me. If you put in a little more effort, you'll see."

"More effort?" he mocks. "Listen, girl. This case is as good as closed."

"But it shouldn't be. You guys have the wrong guy!" I recognize that I'm toeing the line. Ma says I need to protect myself from being viewed as an aggressive Black woman.