The Glove Remembers.

Chapter 2: *EVIDENCE*.

The glove wasn’t done pointing.

It pointed to the floor.

To the space between my bare feet and the bedroom door.

To the phone Tunde dropped when he sat up in bed, awake now, staring at me with Zara’s glove in my hand.

“Tunde,” I said. His name tasted like metal. “Why do you have her glove?”

He didn’t answer. His eyes were on the right glove — the one on the table I didn’t own. The one still pointing, finger steady as a gun barrel. At him.

“Amara.” His voice was sleep-rough. “Put that down. You’re scaring me.”

I laughed. It came out broken. “_I’m_ scaring _you_?” I held up the left glove. Warm. Damp. It smelled like her. Vanilla and old books and the cigarettes she swore she quit. “Three months dead, Tunde. Explain this.”

He swung his legs out of bed. Slow. Like I was the one holding a weapon. “Where did you get that?”

“It was on the table.” I nodded toward it. “A table that wasn’t here when I went to sleep.”

Tunde looked. Actually looked. His face changed. Not fear. Not yet. Calculation. “Okay. Okay, listen. You’ve been stressed. The anniversary—”

“Don’t.” I stepped back. The right glove on the table flared hot again. Condensation pooled under it now, dripping onto the tile. “Don’t tell me what grief does. Don’t tell me what I’m seeing. Tell me why you said her name in your sleep.”

He froze. “I didn’t.”

“‘Zara... no...’” I mimicked his mumble. “Sound familiar?”

Silence. The AC hummed. 18°C. The room should’ve been cold.

It was getting warmer.

Tunde stood up. Six foot two of software engineer who never raised his voice. Now his hands were up, placating. “Baby, please. Just give me the glove. We’ll call Dr. Okoro in the morning. Together.”

Dr. Okoro. My therapist. The one who said I had “unhealthy attachment to evidence.”

The right glove twitched. It dragged itself half an inch closer to the edge of the table. To Tunde’s phone on the floor.

I saw it before he did.

I lunged.

So did he.

My knee hit tile. My fingers closed around his phone first. The screen lit up. Lock screen: a photo of me and him at Zuma Rock. Last December. Before.

The right glove went cold.

For one second. Then it burned.

I hissed and dropped Tunde’s phone. It clattered, face-up. A notification popped.

*1 New Message*

*Z*

_11:58 PM_

My blood stopped moving.

Zara died at 12:06 AM. Eight minutes after that text.

Tunde went very still. “Amara, don’t.”

I grabbed the phone. My thumb was already on it. Face ID failed. It wanted a passcode.

“Code,” I said.

“Amara, that’s private—”

“TUNDE.” I’d never screamed his name before. It felt good. “What’s the code?”

His jaw worked. Then: “Your birthday.”

0209.

The phone unlocked.

Messages opened. Pinned at the top: Z. No last name. No picture. Just Z.

I tapped it.

*Z: Meet me at Blend. Same as always. We need to talk. It’s about him. -Z*

_11:58 PM, Dec 8, 2025_

*Tunde: On my way.*

_11:59 PM_

*Z: Don’t bring her.*

_11:59 PM_

*Tunde: I won’t.*

_12:00 AM_

Then nothing. No more messages. No call logs.

Blend. The rooftop bar in Maitama. Zara’s favorite. Where she was found. On the pavement below.

Tunde had been in Lagos. That’s what he told the police. That’s what he told me. Business trip. Tech conference. Hotel receipts to prove it.

“You were there,” I whispered.

“No.” He shook his head. Fast. “Amara, I swear to God, I didn’t go. I texted that, but I— I couldn’t. I stayed at the hotel. Check the keycard logs. I was in Lagos.”

The left glove in my hand pulsed. Warm. Then cold. Then warm again.

Like a heartbeat trying to tell me something.

“You said her name,” I said. “In your sleep. Just now. ‘Zara, no.’”

Tunde’s face broke. “Because I dream about it. Every night. I dream about getting that text and not going. I dream about what if I had. Would she still—” He stopped. Swallowed. “I didn’t tell you because it would kill you. Knowing she reached out to me. Not you. Me.”

The right glove on the table went still. The condensation stopped.

For the first time since it appeared, it wasn’t pointing.

It was lying flat. Palm up.

Like it was waiting.

I looked at Tunde. Really looked. The man I was supposed to marry in June. The man who held me while I identified Zara’s body. The man who now had his dead fiancée’s sister’s glove in his jacket pocket and her last text on his phone.

“Why was she texting you?” I asked. “Why not me?”

“I don’t know.” His voice cracked. “I swear I don’t know. We barely talked. Maybe twice at your family dinners. She had my number for emergencies. That’s it.”

_It’s about him._

The text said _it’s about him_.

Not _me_. Him.

There were two men in Zara’s life. Tunde. And Detective Hayes.

The glove on the table twitched. One finger lifted.

Pointing again.

Not at Tunde.

Not at me.

At the front door.

Three sharp knocks hit the wood.

At 2:17 AM.

Detective Hayes’ voice came through the door. “Amara? It’s Kelechi. Open up. We need to talk about your sister’s glove.”

The right glove on the table curled into a fist.

The left glove in my hand went ice cold.

Tunde and I looked at each other.

Neither of us had told Hayes about the glove.

---

*End Chapter 2*

How does Hayes know about the glove? Why is he here at 2AM?