My Sister, the Serial Killer - oyinkan braithwaite Page 0,22

banging, loud frenzied banging, in my head. I groan and roll over, unwilling to wake up. I am lying in my bed, fully dressed. It is dark and the banging is coming from the door and not my head. I sit up, trying to fight the still-strong effects of the painkiller I took. I walk to the door and unlock it. Ayoola pushes past me.

“Shit, shit, shit. They saw us!”

“What?”

“See!” Ayoola shoves her phone in my face and I take it from her. She is on Snapchat, and the video I am looking at has the face and shoulders of Femi’s sister in the shot. Her makeup is impeccable but her look is somber.

“Guys, a neighbor has come forward. He didn’t say anything before because he didn’t think it mattered, but now that he’s heard about the blood, he wants to tell us everything he knows. He says he saw two women leave my brother’s apartment that night. Two! He couldn’t see them too clearly, but he is pretty certain one of them is Ayoola—the babe who was dating my brother. Ayoola didn’t tell us about a second woman with her…Why would she lie?”

I feel a chill race up and down my body.

Ayoola abruptly snaps her fingers. “You know what? I’ve got it!”

“Got what?”

“We’ll tell them you were doing him behind my back.”

“What?!”

“And I came in and discovered you and I ended it with him and you followed me out. But I didn’t say anything ’cause I didn’t want to bad-mouth someone who had…”

“You are unbelievable.”

“Look, I know it paints you in a poor light, but it’s better than the alternative.”

I shake my head, hand her the phone and open the door for her to leave.

“Okay. Okay…how about we say you came over ’cause he called you to intervene between us. I wanted to end things and he thought you could convince me not to…”

“Or…how about, he wanted to end things with you and you thought I could intervene between the two of you and you were just too embarrassed to say.”

Ayoola bites her lips. “Would people really believe that, though?”

“Get out.”

BATHROOM

Alone in my room, I pace.

Femi’s parents have the money needed to rouse the curiosity and professionalism of the police. And now they have a focus for their fear and confusion. They will want answers.

For the first time in my adult existence, I wish he was here. He would know what to do. He would be in control, every step of the way. He wouldn’t allow his daughter’s grievous error to ruin his reputation—he would have had this whole matter swept under the rug weeks ago.

But then it is doubtful Ayoola would have engaged in these activities had he been alive. The only form of retribution she ever feared was the one that came from him.

I sit down on my bed and think through the night of Femi’s death. They fight, or something. Ayoola has her knife on her, since she carries it the way other women carry tampons. She stabs him, then leaves the bathroom to call me. She places the napkin on the sofa and sits on it. She waits for me. I arrive, we move the body. That is the moment we were most exposed. As far as I can tell, no one witnessed us moving the body, but I can’t be 100 percent certain.

There is nothing out of place in my room, nothing to organize or clean. My desk has my laptop on it and my charger is neatly wound up and secured with a cable tie. My sofa faces the bed, its seat free of clutter, unlike the one in Ayoola’s room that is basically drowning in dress patterns and different colored fabrics. My bed is turned down and the sheets are tightly tucked. My cupboard is shut, concealing clothes folded, hung and arranged according to color. But you can never clean a bathroom too many times, so I roll up my sleeves and head to the toilet. The cabinet under the sink is filled with everything required to tackle dirt and disease—gloves, bleach, disinfectant wipes, disinfectant spray, sponge, toilet bowl cleaner, all-purpose cleaner, multi-surface cleaner, bowl brush plunger and caddy, and odor-shield trash bags. I slip on the gloves and take out the multi-surface cleaner. I need some time to think.

QUESTIONS

They send the police over to question Ayoola. I guess Femi’s family is done playing nice. The officers come to our house, and my mother asks me to bring them refreshments.

Minutes later, the