Nineteen

wonder if my father remembered to confirm that there is no God but Allah. If he said shahada. Did whoever killed him make “dua’” (supplication) to Allah to forgive my father's sins?
Two marked police cruisers pull up in the front lawn before I can make a cup of tea. I'm still looking out the window when the Smiths from across the street crowd behind the window in the kitchen. The nee-naa sounds of the cruiser must've woke up the neighbours. The streets are alive again. Neighbours milling about. Pointing. Questioning. Teenagers, sensing a scandal, prowl the road with flashlit IPhones. Lights. Camera. Click-click. Can just imagine the headlines tomorrow. The videos on the news. On YouTube. My father was a bit of a celebrity. The wealthiest person in Margate. In the South Coast. Ask anyone — You know the Addas? — (The super rich folks down by lake Columbia? Such fortunate family. Lovely man that Zayed.)
Papa made his first million at the age of twenty-three by thirty his net worth was well over fifteen million. No one makes that kind of money and not draw attention. The good kind. Envy inducing kind.
The magazines featured him in their front covers. Business columns quoted him. Papa. A legend. A man famous for his generosity: HIV centers, Animal shelters, NGO organisations, sending stranger's kids to university, donating brand new clothes. Everyone knew who he was. A man of integrity. He met the president on elite conferences. Shared a toast. Clicked glasses. Spoke of kids. Obedient wife. Nurturing millions.
I peel my eyes from the street and watch the officers, in their tight fitting navy uniforms, exit the cruisers and walk casually towards the front door. Dumb cock gobblers. The doorbell rings, I watch until the house swallows them.
I stroll down the stairs and into the lounge. They're talking to Clara. She isn't answering any of their questions. She's just staring at the walls, muttering to herself.
And then my eyes shift away from her to the strangers looking through the room, searching. "Detectives." I nod stiffly. Police officers make me edgy.
"You must be the caller... Daniel? Is this your sister..." He trials off while he takes out a notebook. "...Clara?"
"Yes that's my twin, Clara. She and Papa were very close. I think she's probably in shock." I stare in the same spot without blinking until the tears fall.
"Can you show us your father?"
I nod but don't move from where I'm standing.
The police are by my sister's side in a heart beat. Two men and a woman.
"Hello." The man that speaks is young. Tall. Skinny. Black eyed. "I'm detective Reed, that's my partner Bud" — he gestures towards the door at a man I hadn't noticed. An older man in his mid forties. He looks like the type of policeman that solves all the cases assigned to him, no matter how long it takes, — "and this is my lieutenant, Jefferson. I can get you a glass of water, should I?"
I'm about to answer for her, tell them to leave her alone when she shakes her head without taking her eyes off the wall. Just once. I imagine that if she'd spoken then it'd have been a hard No. Unlike earlier, she isn't crying, which scares me more. Why is she bottling up her pain?
I nod impatiently at them. The sooner they are done with questioning, and gathering evidence, the sooner I can tend to Clara.
"Clara Kadre Addas, right?" Something about the scepticism in his eyes, the frown on his forehead, the thin line of his mouth makes me uncomfortable. "Okay then," he says to himself than to Clara. He gets up and looks at me.
"Can you show us your father?"
I frown. "Sure."
Reed walks to me in quick steps. All friendliness has vanished. His long limbs move with ease. I turn towards the stairs before he and his colleagues can reach me. They follow behind me in silence.
The walls in the hallway are plastered with black and white pictures of my mother that were of low quality, anyone who's been at my house knows that Papa hasn't gotten over Mama. My mother worked in the health department doing administration duties and Papa often hinted there was more to her job than just filling paperwork, or making lengthy phone calls. From the little information he shared about her I knew he didn't believe she was a good hearted person. Umm? Why would any husband say that?
"Are you okay?" Reed asks anxiously.
I nod. I haven't realised that I've stopped to stare at a picture of my parents laughing with the sun hanging directly overhead. They seemed happy in the picture.
"Are we close? You don't have to go in, just give us the directions and we'll be fine."
I shrug. And my limbs protest with pain. Aw. I cringe. I must've hurt myself while I was with Zoe. "I'm fine."
"Are you sure?" his eyes are concerned. "You look on the verge of hyperventilation."
"I'm fine." My voice breaks. This is planned. Timed. They have to believe I'm as disturbed by losing Papa as Clara is. I clear my throat. "I'll be fine."
He hesitates. "Okay. So what happened today? Start from the beginning up until we came through the door."
I sigh and go about explaining everything, going to school, coming home to an empty house, Clara getting home, the laundry, finding the body, calling for help.
By the time I am done tears are streaming down my face. I've described the incident in great detail.
"That's when you called 10111?"
"Yes... right after I found him," I lie. I found the body at least an hour and a half before I called for help.
“Daniel, is it?” says Bud with a local drawl. “You say your sister came home, found your dad alive, went back out and when she came home he was dead?”
Because saying the same thing more than a million times is so captivating. Oh boy! I relay everything to him just as I had to the dispatcher, but this time I'm unable to hide how annoyed I am with them. I tell them about the missing ring as well.
“He never took it off. Even though Mama left him, he still wore his band. A birthday gift from her. Besides, he couldn't take it off even if he wanted to. Over the years Papa had gone fat and so the ring wouldn't come off."
They share a look. “Are you sure he was wearing it this morning? Perhaps he took it off to shower?”
Oh Fuck! I want to bang my head against the wall. I just told them he couldn't take it off. He physically couldn't.
“No,” I tell him as patiently as I can. “You can ask Clara when she's feeling better. He never took it off. Ever."
“And there's no way he could have?”
“No. No way. I saw his finger man, someone fucking cut it off. Fuck!"
“Alright, son,” he says kindly. “Just wait here.”
We've reached the crime scene now and they all get inside and push me out. They spend five minutes in there before Reed goes back to his cruiser, I follow and stand behind the door as he pulls out his walkie talkie. I can't really make out the individual words from where I'm standing but I'm assuming he's calling it in.
Within minutes, six other cruisers pull up. There's an ambulance out there as well. The neighbours have come out in numbers now, most wrapped in bathrobes to ward of the midnight chills. There's even some guy taking pictures, Paparazzi, his colleagues asking questions (wow, these guys don't waste time do they?). This is will be on the front pages of various newspapers the minute we wake up. There's no way we're going to school tomorrow. No way.
I recognise Detective Jones the second he walks past me to where Clara is still sitting. He walks with a sureness in his step. I hear he's never not solved a case. He's that good. One hand is wrapped around his gun belt. I lean back against the wall and cross my arms.
“Miss Addas…” he says. "We need your help in order to solve your father's murder."
“Please, call me Clara,” she replies. Her voice is lifeless as though she's lost all fight in her.
“Alright, Clara. Officer Kern here just radioed in a murder report. I hear you were the last known person to see him alive?”
“No, detective. I wasn't the last. Papa had company.”
Clara looks at me and guilt clouds her eyes. What is she doing? Why is she looking at me like that? Like I make her uncomfortable?
“Call me Jones. And do you know if this person would want to harm your father?”
“Is Papa really dead?” she's looking at me while she asks this. Jones frowns at me over his shoulder.
"Would you go get your sister a glass of water?"
I guess Detective Jones has come to the same conclusion I have. Clara doesn't feel comfortable talking with me here. Hmm...
I nod and peel myself off the wall but Clara suddenly gets up and sprints out of the room. Detective Jones jogs after her and I follow him. She runs straight into Papa's bedroom and tears through the thick crowd of law enforcements to get to Papa's body.
Suddenly tears begin to pour over her cheeks, the sobs make her body vibrate and the room to fall to silence. This is the first time she's come up here. It must be hard for her to see this. I rush to her side and wrap my arms around her.
"Shh, sis. It's gonna be okay. We'll be fine," I lie because I can't tell her how crumbled our world has become. "We have to be strong, okay? Shh."
"He's dead," she says as though she's just realised this.
The house is crawling with police searching the house, touching and moving everything with latex gloved hands. The forensic teams moves slowly, carefully with their evidence kits.