Out of the corner of Jemma Barker’s eye, the woman flickered, a shadow of light shimmering at the edges of her vision.
Don’t look at ’em, Jemma. That was Mama’s voice.
Ain’t nothing but the devil’s work if you look. And that was Daddy’s.
Taking a slow breathe (five, four, three, two, and one on the exhale), shakier than usual due to the train’s rattling, Jemma stared into her light-wool-skirted lap, where twisting fingers worked wrinkles into a white handkerchief. When she glanced over at the empty seat next to her, the woman was gone.
Jemma smoothed the handkerchief, then her already smooth skirt, then her bobbed hair, the hot-combed hangs fluffing in the Southern heat, humidity intent on disarray. The man who’d sat in that seat, who’d boarded with her when she’d left Chicago two days ago, had gotten off somewhere in southern Missouri, right when one of the white-jacketed porters had hung a COLORED sign in their car. The sign wasn’t necessary, as only Black passengers inhabited…