Chapter 1

It was eight o’clock at night. The early March weather was damp and chilly. I was shivering inside my coat and my feet were crying the blues. In getting dolled up for the evening, I'd been smart enough to grab my fur but when it came to my feet, I'd chosen pretty over practical, picking T-strap shoes that were better suited for summer than late winter. Now, my feet were cold and wet and telling me to go home and get dry, to snuggle up in a blanket before my warm fireplace. But I hurried along, past my doorstep, determined to reach my goal.

The 139th Street block of Strivers’ Row was for the most part empty and its windows dark, but the lights at number 128 were a different story. A soft light glowed behind the first-floor parlor window.

That particular townhouse belonged to the Kincaids, Vera and Levy. She was a retired nurse and he, the leader of one of Harlem’s wealthiest and most influential churches. Both were highly respected, having worked long and hard for the benefit of the community. As it happened, they were also my neighbors. Lived only a couple of houses down from me. Normally, the thought of dropping by to see them brought nothing but pleasure.

I hurried up the steps of their limestone townhouse and knocked on their front door. Levy’s face appeared in the wide parlor window. I waved. He frowned, let the curtain drop back into place, and disappeared. Seconds later, he opened the door.

The reverend was dressed in loose blue trousers and a gray silk smoking jacket with a velvet shawl collar. I recognized the jacket as the one Vera had given him for Christmas. I’d been with her when she picked it out. He held a leather-bound copy of the bible in one hand and rimless spectacles in the other. He wasn’t a tall man, rather short actually, and had a bit of a paunch, but he was considered attractive. He had an olive-toned complexion and wore his salt-and-pepper hair in a conk, with smooth waves slicked back against his head. He sported a thin, well-manicured mustache and dressed well, spoke well. An educated man, dignified. A product of Tuskegee. He had charm. He had warmth. His parishioners loved him. Vera adored him. They’d been together for at least fifteen years.

He looked surprised and puzzled to see me and only me standing there. He glanced around and behind me. “Vera?”

“You mean, she’s not here?”

“No,” he shook his head. “Of course not. She— I thought— Weren’t you two supposed to have—“

“She didn’t show up.”

He frowned. “What do you mean, she didn’t—“

“She didn’t. Show. Up.”

He blinked, taking this in. His dark brown eyes again checked the empty space around me, as if he hoped she’d materialize out of thin air. When she didn’t, his gaze returned to me. Only now, it held a glimmer of puzzled concern.

“Well, that’s odd,” he said.

I was cold and grumpy and now, whether I wanted to admit it or not, I was also getting a little worried. Where the heck was she if she wasn’t here with him?

I stamped my feet to get the blood flowing. Two minutes of standing there and my toes had begun to feel like ice cubes.

“Levy,” I said with just a hint of impatience. “May I come in?”

He made a startled little movement, murmured, “Of course,” and stepped back, opening the door wide.

They had a perfect home, the Kincaids did. Levy’s world was his church, Mount Olivet Congregational. He’d left the home decorating to Vera and had good results to show for it. She was Jamaican-born and the beauty of her heritage showed everywhere. It was a picture-perfect place of warm colors, amber lights, and lovely understated decorations. Vera’s rose-scented perfume laced the air.

I followed him into the parlor. “She was supposed to have met me at Connie’s Inn.”

“Yes, that’s what she told me. Dinner and a show afterward.”

“She called me at the newsroom early this afternoon. I wasn’t there, so they took a message. She said she might be a little late, but that I should go on ahead and hold the table.”

“And?”

“And that’s what I did. But she never came.”

He shook his head. “That’s really not like her. That’s—“

The doorbell rang. He and I exchanged looks. Frowning, he went to the window and gazed out. His frown deepened. “It’s some man. Some white man,” he muttered. He placed the bible face down on the window seat and went to answer the front door.

A white man?

I could understand Levy’s puzzlement—and irritation. What would a white man be doing in this part of Harlem at this time of night? Don’t get me wrong. There was nothing special about seeing white folk in Harlem. But it was odd to see one in this part of it, especially at this time of day. Most of the time, they came uptown to binge or boogie in one of the clubs or speakeasies—not visit a resident in a quiet, respectable neighborhood late at night.

Of course ...

My heart skipped a beat.

There was one particular kind of white man who would be out at night, knocking on some poor man’s door. The thought of him knocking on this man’s door was enough to make my heart squeeze.

I hurried to the parlor entrance just in time to see Levy let the devil in.

Excerpted from Dear Sister Dead by Persia Walker. Copyright © 2023 by Blood Vintage Press. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.