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Just how far are we prepared to go to protect the ones we love?

If someone dear to us is in trouble, we help them. Obviously. But where’s the line? At what point do the larger ethical and moral ramifications of our help become unconscionable to us? Where our assistance actually aids in the continuation of something we ourselves find abhorrent?

That’s the underlying concern in Oyinkan Braithwaite’s dryly funny, no-nonsense debut novel “My Sister, the Serial Killer” (Doubleday, $22.95). An older sister with a wavering and resentful devotion to the younger – a devotion that extends to cleaning up some unpleasant messes – questions the motives behind that devotion. It’s a spare and biting look at just how deep our familial bonds can flow – and what blood relations do when another’s blood is spilled.

Published in Style

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