My Sister, the Serial Killer - oyinkan braithwaite Page 0,24

around a body-shaped bundle, this interrogation would not be taking place in the comfort of our own home. These men didn’t really suspect us. They had probably been paid to interview us.

“Yes.”

“How did you get there, Ms. Ayoola?”

“I don’t like to drive, I took an Uber.”

They nod.

“Can we have a look at your car, Ms. Korede?”

“Why?” asks my mother. I should be moved that she feels the need to defend me, too; but instead I am furious at the fact that she suspects nothing, knows nothing. Why should her hands be clean, while mine become more and more stained?

“We just want to make sure we have covered all the bases.”

“Why should we go through all this? My girls have done nothing wrong!” My mother rises from her seat as she delivers her heartfelt, misguided defense. The older policeman frowns and stands up, scraping his chair across the marble floor, and then nudges his partner to follow suit. Perhaps I will let this play out. Wouldn’t the innocent be indignant?

“Ma, we will just have a quick look—”

“We have been accommodating enough. Please leave.”

“Ma, if we have to, we will return with the necessary paperwork.”

I want to speak, but the words won’t leave my mouth. I’m paralyzed—all I can think of is the blood that was in the boot.

“I said leave,” my mother stresses. She marches to the door, and they are forced to follow suit. They give Ayoola curt nods and leave the house. Mum slams the door behind them. “Can you believe those imbeciles?”

Ayoola and I don’t answer. We are both reviewing our options.

BLOOD

They come the next day and take the car—my silver Ford Focus. The three of us stand on the doorstep, arms crossed, and watch them drive it away. My car is taken to a police station, in an area I never frequent, to be rigorously examined for evidence of a crime I did not commit, while Ayoola’s Fiesta sits pretty in our compound. My eyes settle on her white hatchback. It has the shiny look of a newly washed vehicle. It has not been tainted with blood.

I turn to Ayoola.

“I’m using your car to go to work.”

Ayoola frowns. “But what if I need to go somewhere during the day?”

“You can take an Uber.”

“Korede,” Mum begins carefully, “why don’t you drive my car?”

“I don’t feel like driving stick. Ayoola’s car is fine.”

I walk back into the house and head up to my room, before either of them has a chance to respond. My hands are cold, so I rub them on my jeans.

I cleaned that car. I cleaned it within an inch of its life. If they find a dot of blood, it will be because they bled while they were searching. Ayoola knocks on my door and comes in. I pay no mind to her presence and pick up the broom to sweep my floor.

“Are you angry with me?”

“No.”

“You could have fooled me.”

“I just don’t like being without a ride, is all.”

“And it’s my fault.”

“No. It’s Femi’s fault for bleeding all over my boot.”

She sighs and sits down on my bed, ignoring my “go away” face.

“You’re not the only one suffering, you know. You act like you are carrying this big thing all by yourself, but I worry too.”

“Do you? ’Cause the other day, you were singing ‘I Believe I Can Fly.’ ”

Ayoola shrugs. “It’s a good song.”

I try not to scream. More and more, she reminds me of him. He could do a bad thing and behave like a model citizen right after. As though the bad thing had never happened. Is it in the blood? But his blood is my blood and my blood is hers.

FATHER

Ayoola and I are wearing a ṣọ ẹbí. It is customary to wear matching ankara outfits for these types of functions. She chose the color—it is a rich purple ensemble. He hated the color purple, which makes her selection perfect. She also designed both our pieces—mine is a mermaid dress, flattering to my tall frame, and hers clings to her every curve. We both wear sunglasses to disguise the fact that our eyes are dry.

My mother weeps in church, bent double; her sobs are so loud and powerful, they rattle her body. I wonder what she is focusing on to bring about tears—her own frailty? Or maybe she is simply recalling what he did to her, to us.

I scan the aisles, and I see Tade searching for a place to sit.

“You invited him?” I hiss.

“I told him about it. He invited