He was kneeling near the far wall beside a loose floorboard.
I pulled it up.
Underneath was another phone, a black notebook, and a sealed envelope.
My pulse hammered.
“Take all of it,” he said.
I did.
We were almost out of the office when voices drifted up from downstairs.
“Are you sure nobody’s here?”
“Yeah. Police already released the site. We’re just double-checking.”
I froze.
There was no mistaking those voices.
I had heard them outside the house the night of the fire.
The men had come back.
The only exit was the staircase.
I grabbed Kenzo and pulled him into the office closet just as footsteps started up the stairs.
We crouched in darkness, my hand pressed over my own mouth to control my breathing. Through the slats of the closet door, I saw flashlight beams move across the room.
Two men entered.
“Yo, Marcus,” one of them said. “Come look at this.”
The other stepped in.
“What?”
“The safe’s open.”
A beat of silence.
“You sure?”
“Positive. Wasn’t like that when we left.”
My blood turned to ice.
They had done the fire. They had been in this room before.
“Think it was the cops?” the first one asked.
“Cops don’t steal cash,” Marcus said. “And look.”
His flashlight dropped to the floor.
I followed the beam and saw what he had seen.
Small prints in the dust.
Kenzo’s.
“Too small for an adult,” Marcus said slowly.
“A kid?”
“I think we got a problem.”
He took out his phone. “I’m calling the boss.”
I could not let that call happen.
If Kwesi learned immediately that someone had opened the safe—that a child’s footprints were in the room—he would know we were alive.
My body locked with panic.
And then, from outside, a woman screamed.
Loud. Sharp. Full of alarm.
“What the hell was that?”
