My Sister, the Serial Killer

The Sunday Times Bestseller

Oyinkan Braithwaite

• Publisher: Atlantic Books
• Year: 2019
• eBook ISBN:
  9781786495990
• Subtopic: Crime & Mystery Literature

Sunday Times bestseller and The Times #1 bestseller

Longlisted for the Booker Prize 2019
Shortlisted for the Women's Prize for Fiction 2019
Winner of the 2019 LA Times Award for Best Crime Thriller
Capital Crime Debut Author of the Year 2019
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'A literary sensation'
Guardian

'A bombshell of a book... Sharp, explosive, hilarious'
New York Times

'Glittering and funny... A stiletto slipped between the ribs and through the left ventricle of the heart' Financial Times
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When Korede's dinner is interrupted one night by a distress call from her sister, Ayoola, she knows what's expected of her: bleach, rubber gloves, nerves of steel and a strong stomach. This'll be the third boyfriend Ayoola's dispatched in, quote, self-defence and the third mess that her lethal little sibling has left Korede to clear away. She should probably go to the police for the good of the menfolk of Nigeria, but she loves her sister and, as they say, family always comes first. Until, that is, Ayoola starts dating the doctor where Korede works as a nurse. Korede's long been in love with him, and isn't prepared to see him wind up with a knife in his back: but to save one would mean sacrificing the other...

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 three of us—Ayoola, Mum and I—and the two policemen are seated at the table. They are eating cake and drinking Coke, showering us with crumbs as they ask their questions. The younger one is stuffing his mouth as though he has not eaten in days, despite the fact that the chair can barely contain his girth.

“So he invited you over to his house?”

“Yes.”

“And then your sister came?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Yes or no, ma.”

“Yes.”

I have asked her to keep her answers short and to the point, to avoid lying as much as she can, and to maintain eye contact.

When she informed me they were coming, I hustled Ayoola to our father’s study.

Empty of books and memorabilia, it was just a musty space with a table, an armchair and a rug. It was gloomy, so I pulled back a curtain—the bright light revealed dust motes floating all around us.

“Why did you bring me here?”

“We need to talk.”

“Here?” There were no distractions—no bed for Ayoola to lie on, no TV to draw her eyes and no material to fiddle with.

“Sit down.” She frowned but complied. “When did you see Femi last?”

“What?! You know when I—”

“Ayoola, we need to be ready for these questions.” Her eyes widened, and then she smiled. She leaned back.

“Don’t lean back, you don’t want to look too relaxed. An innocent person would still be tense. Why did you kill him?” She stopped smiling.

“Would they really ask that?”

“They may want to trip you up.”

“I didn’t kill him.” She looked me straight in the eye as she said it.

Yes, I remember now, I didn’t have to teach her to maintain eye contact. She was already a pro.

The younger policeman blushes. “How long had the two of you been dating, ma?”

“A month.”

“That’s not very long.”

She says nothing, and I feel a sense of pride.

“But he wanted to break up with you?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“He—wanted—to—break—up—with—you? Abi, was it the other way around?”

I wonder if Ayoola was right, that in my anger I had overlooked the unlikelihood that a man would willingly leave her side. Even now, we all pale beside her. She is dressed simply in a gray blouse and navy trousers, she has applied nothing but eyebrow pencil to her face and she isn’t wearing jewelry—but it makes her look younger and fresher. When she gives the policemen an occasional smile she reveals her deep dimples.

I clear my throat and hope that Ayoola gets the message.

“Does it matter who wanted to end it?”

“Ma, if you wanted to end it, we need to know.”

She sighs, and wrings her hands.

“I cared about him, but he wasn’t really my type . . .” My sister is in the wrong profession. She should be in front of the camera, with the lights framing her innocence.

“What’s your type, ma?” asks the younger one.

“So your sister came to mediate the issue?” his senior quickly adds.

“Yes. She came to help.”

“And did she?”

“Did she what?”

“Did she help? Were you back together?”

“No . . . it was over.”

“So, you and your sister went out together and left him there.”

“Mmmm.”

“Yes or no?”

“She has answered you na,” interjects Mum. I feel another headache hovering. This is not the time for her mother-bear antics. She is puffed up now, having controlled herself for most of the interview. I imagine none of this makes sense to her. Ayoola gives her hand a gentle pat.

“It’s okay, Mum, they’re just doing their job. The answer is yes.”

“Thank you, ma. What was he doing when you left him?”

Ayoola bites her lips, looks up and to the right. “He followed us to the door and shut it behind us.”

“He was angry?”

“No. Resigned.”

“Resigned, ma?”

She sighs. It is a masterful mix of weariness and sadness. We watch as she twirls a lock of hair around her finger. “I mean, he had accepted that things wouldn’t work out between us.”

“Ms. Korede, do you agree with that assessment? Did Mr. Durand accept his fate?”

I remember the body, half lying, half sitting on the bathroom floor, and the blood. I doubt he had time to come to terms with his fate, let alone accept it.

“I imagine he was unhappy. But there was nothing he could have done to change her mind.”

“And then you both drove home?”

“Yes.”

“In the same car?”

“Yes.”

“In Ms. Korede’s car?” I dig my nails into my thighs and blink. Why are they so interested in my car? What could they possibly suspect? Did someone see us move the body? I attempt to slow my breathing without drawing attention to myself. No; no one saw us. If we had been seen carting 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 t...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title
• Copyright
• Words
• Bleach
• The Notebook
• The Poem
• Body
• Scrubs
• The Patient
• Heat
• Instagram
• Traffic
• Reception
• Dancing
• Father
• Knife
• Ẹ̀fó
• #3
• Song
• Red
• School
• Stain
• Home
• Break
• Flaw
• Flapper
• Mascara
• Orchids
• Roses
• Father
• Bracelet
• Time
• The Patient
• Cleaner
• Bathroom
• Questions
• Blood
• Father
• Maga
• Father
• Research
• Car
• Heart
• The Patient
• Angel of Death
• Birth
• Birthday
• Head Nurse
• Coma
• The Game
• Seventeen
• Maneater
• Awake
• Market
• Memory
• Madness
• Asleep
• Ice Cream
• Secret
• Friend
• Father
• Family
• Sheep
• Father
• Wife
• Night
• Broken
• Phone
• #2: Peter
• Theater
• Wound
• Fence
• Screen
• Sister
• Father
• Truth
• Gone
• #5
• Acknowledgments