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They didn’t think she was Black, but she might have been Native, and God forbid they treat her as a white woman.
Maryse’s skin crawled at being so close to this dead woman, because she was dead, had been dead, would always be dead, and oh, how she smiled.
She was dead, and Maryse had finally learned, after five years as a medium, what the dead spoke of. Hate. Pain. Cold. Dead. Always dead. Dead forever.