The Glove Remembers.

Chapter 4:Knock Knock.

The gloves were holding hands.

And they were knocking.

_Knock._

From inside the leather. A sound like knuckles on wood, but muffled. Wet. Like it was coming from underwater.

_Knock._

Detective Hayes was pressed against my front door like he could phase through it. “Turn it off,” he said. Not to me. To the gloves. “Zara, please. It’s over.”

_Knock._

Tunde’s phone was still ringing in the bedroom. Unknown number. Four rings. Five.

I didn’t move. Couldn’t. The air was 18°C but my breath fogged. The left glove had gone from ice to freezer-burn. My fingertips were numb where I’d touched it.

Ife would call this hypothermia. Ife, my best friend. Ife, the nurse who said grief made you see ghosts and low iron made you see shadows.

Ife, who was calling me now.

My phone vibrated on the kitchen counter. Screen lit up: _Ife Okafor 💉_.

Three people who had my address: Tunde. Hayes. Ife.

Two of them were in my living room. The third was calling while a dead girl’s gloves knocked from the inside.

The bedroom phone stopped ringing.

_Knock._

The gloves twitched. Then went still. Both of them. Cold. Dead leather on a table that shouldn’t exist.

Hayes exhaled. Like he’d been holding his breath since December. “Good. That’s good, Amara. Now we can talk.”

“Like hell,” Tunde said. He stepped between me and Hayes. Finally. “You show up at 2 AM, you know about evidence that was never public, and you expect us to—”

“Your fiancé is right,” Hayes cut in. His eyes hadn’t left the gloves. “This isn’t safe. For any of us.” He looked at me. Cop face back on. “I need to take those into custody. Right now.”

“No.” The word ripped out of me. Raw. “You closed her case. You said suicide. You don’t get to—”

My phone buzzed again. Text this time.

*Ife: Open your door. Now. I’m outside.*

I froze.

Hayes heard the buzz. “Who’s that?”

“None of your business,” Tunde snapped.

_Knock knock knock._

Not the gloves. My front door. Hard. Fast. A nurse’s knock — efficient, pissed off, zero patience for your bullshit.

“Amara Eze, if you don’t open this door in five seconds I’m calling 911 and your landlord!”

Ife.

Hayes went pale. “She can’t be here.”

That was the wrong thing to say.

I crossed the room and yanked the door open.

Ife Okafor stood there in scrubs, hair in a bun, one hand on her hip, the other holding a thermos. 27 years old, 5’2”, and the only person alive who could make Detective Hayes take a step back.

Her eyes did a sweep: me, shaking. Tunde, shirtless. Hayes, cornered. Table that shouldn’t exist. Two gloves on it.

“Okay,” she said. “Which one of you idiots is bleeding?”

“None,” I said. My voice broke. “Yet.”

Ife pushed past Hayes like he was furniture. She set the thermos on the counter, not the table. Never the table. “You missed group tonight.” She was talking to me but looking at the gloves. “You never miss group. Then your neighbor Mrs. Abah calls me, says she heard screaming and saw a police car with no plates.” Her gaze snapped to Hayes. “That you?”

Hayes recovered. Cop mask on. “Nurse Okafor. This is a crime scene.”

“No,” Ife said. “This is Amara’s apartment. And you’re here without a warrant at 2:37 AM. So unless you’re arresting someone, you’re trespassing.” She turned to me. “Babe. Talk. Why is Zara’s glove on a table you don’t own?”

The air left my lungs. “You—”

“I saw her wear it every day for two years, Amara. I know that seam on the thumb. Zara bit it when she was stressed.” Ife didn’t touch the glove. Nurses know better than to touch things that don’t make sense. “Start talking. Now. Before I assume you’ve all lost your minds and start taking temperatures.”

So I told her. Short version. Package. Warm. Pointed. Tunde’s jacket. Text from Z. Hayes showing up knowing things he shouldn’t.

I didn’t mention the knocking. Or the voice. _LIAR._

When I finished, Ife was quiet for ten seconds. Then she opened her thermos. The smell of ginger and zobo hit the room. Normal. Real.

She poured three cups. Pushed one toward Hayes. “Drink. You look like you’re going to pass out.”

He didn’t.

She pushed one to Tunde. He took it with shaking hands.

She kept one for me. “Sip. Small. Your lips are blue.”

I didn’t realize I was cold until the zobo hit my tongue. Warm. Spiced. Real.

Ife finally looked at Hayes. “You told her suicide. Three months ago. You signed the form.”

“I did,” Hayes said.

“And now you’re here at 2 AM for a glove.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Hayes looked at the gloves. “Because if I’m wrong about how Zara Eze died, then I helped kill her.”

The room went silent.

Ife set her cup down. “Okay. New rule. Nobody touches the gloves. Nobody leaves. And somebody tells me what the hell ‘evidence locker 17-B’ is, because Amara, your hands are showing early signs of frostbite and there’s no ice in this room.”

She grabbed my wrist. Her fingers were warm, steady. Professional. “Pulse is 110. You’re in shock.” She looked up at me. “When did the nosebleed start?”

I touched my face. My fingers came away red.

I hadn’t felt it.

Tunde swore. Hayes moved for the door.

“Don’t,” Ife said, not looking at him. “You leave, I call Internal Affairs. You stay, we figure out why a dead girl’s glove is giving my best friend hypothermia.” She looked at me. “Amara. Do you trust me?”

“Yes,” I said. No hesitation.

“Good.” She pulled a penlight from her pocket. Shined it in my eyes. “Then listen. You’re not crazy. But you are sick. And sick people need tests, not séances.” She clicked the light off. “So here’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to photograph those gloves. We’re going to bag them. And we’re going to take you to National Hospital. Now.”

The gloves on the table twitched.

Both of them.

And for the first time, they pointed at Ife.