Blend

37:00 | unfinished business

HIS MUGSHOT is the worst I've ever seen him. I've heard the cops do that shit on purpose.

My television screen blasts his full name (Wallace Anthony Jones), age (19), and height (6'4) next to a frozen image of his worn, pissed-off face. He's cute. A dimple on one side of his cheek even in the scowl. Loose curls at the crown. Smooth coconut skin. Hardly a killer, which I know for a fact. But that's not what America will see.

They'll see a hoodlum.

A thug.

A troubled Black who's had issues with staying in line since he was twelve.

Still, as more details come out about his arrest, I'm not sure I can entirely blame America. It does look bad. They're saying he was the last one to see her alive. And thanks to his girlfriend, who keeps posting her reaction to TikTok, the news outlets now know he had a "thing" for Penelope.

These Black athletes and their token white girls.

Cue eye roll.

Well look at you now, Negro. The first chance your pretty little thing got, she strung the noose around your neck herself.

I sigh real heavy, dusting highlighter over my cheeks. It isn't fair of me to judge Ace like that. The world is already doing enough of it.

Truth be told, I've seen the guy around on campus a few times. Even bumped into him at Chipotle. He grabbed a plastic lid for me once and smiled with the light reaching his eyes and I almost peed myself because he was so damn fine. I doubt he even remembers that. He must have panties dropping for him left and right.

Well, he did. Won't so much anymore.

I called the station last night to give an anonymous tip that the real killer was out there and that he was white—not brown. I even informed them that he would have a bite mark on his right thumb. But do you think they took my tip for real? Of course not. Ace is still sitting in jail as the prime suspect, where he will remain until something drastic happens.

There's nothing more I can do.

Unfortunately, Penelope Adams herself doesn't agree. She's been harping on me all morning about doing more. I told her if she didn't give me a few moments to myself, I'd sage her ass away, permanently!

That did the trick. She left me alone.

During a moment of deep contemplation, I flip my waist-long passion twists to one side, finishing up my mascara.

I wish I hadn't stayed at the campus library so late last night. I wish I hadn't taken College Avenue to walk home. Because in doing so, I caught sight of her body bag as EMTs wheeled her out of Nathan's house. The flash of red lights had forced my curiosity to the scene.

It was oddly just like the movies. Huddles of sobering girls were crying together. Groups of young men were being questioned. That's when I saw Ace, surrounded by a sea of white officers. He was getting frustrated, as if they weren't listening to him. And then my eyes popped out when they slammed him to the ground—roughing him up—and handcuffed him.

I think I stood in complete shock for a whole ten minutes. I'd seen these things on the news, but never in person like that. So I kept gaping, right up to them driving him away. Ace and I locked eyes for an instant as the car drove by, and I had an immediate dark feeling in my gut. One that warned a spirit was nearby.

That spirit was already standing next to me on the curb, shaking her head. "He didn't do it. They've got the wrong guy."

I have one rule when it comes to the dead: don't talk back. They can't know I see them. I make it a point to blend in as much as possible, going as far as to walk right through them—even the demonic scary ones. No one can know I see them. No one.

But after witnessing what I had and thinking of Ace's scared face in the back of that police car, I couldn't help it. I made the mistake of responding back.

"Then who did?"

Penelope turned to me with an intense gaze—one that told me then I was never going to get rid of her.

And now?

I sigh, opening my bedroom door.

Well, now the bitch is waiting to lay out her argument again. Help solve my case, she'll plead. You're the only one who can.

This is why I don't talk to ghosts. Their unfinished business becomes mine.