Marcus bolted out first. The other man followed him.
The second they disappeared, I shoved open the closet door.
“Run,” I whispered.
I grabbed Kenzo’s hand, and we flew downstairs, across the kitchen, out the back, through the yard, to the wall where Zunaira was waiting.
“Was that you?” I hissed as she boosted Kenzo up.
“Yes,” she said. “Did it work?”
I lifted the backpack. “I got everything.”
We went over the wall, half climbing, half scrambling, then ran two blocks to her car.
Only once the doors were locked and the engine was on did I finally breathe.
“They know someone was there,” I said. “They saw the safe. They saw Kenzo’s footprints.”
“Excellent,” Zunaira said, eyes on the road.
I stared at her.
“How is that excellent?”
“Because now Kwesi will panic,” she said. “And panicked men make mistakes.”
Back at the office, we emptied the backpack onto her desk.
She opened the black notebook first.
The more pages she turned, the colder her smile became.
“Well,” she murmured. “Your husband is either meticulous or catastrophically stupid.”
“What is it?”
She turned the notebook toward me.
Every page was filled with dates, amounts, names, debts, payment schedules, threats. A ledger of everything he owed and to whom. Notes about conversations. Promises. Deadlines.
Then, toward the end, the handwriting changed. Sharper. Faster.
Final solution.
Ayira life insurance 2.5M.
Accident has to look natural.
Contact Marcus service 50,000. Half upfront.
Nov 2.
That was the date of the fire.
I stared at the page until the words blurred.
“Why would he write this down?” I whispered.
“Insurance,” Zunaira said. “Leverage. If the hired men ever turned on him, he had proof they were involved too.”
She picked up one of the burner phones.
“And I’d bet these are even better.”
A tech expert she trusted helped unlock the phones before dawn.
Once they were open, the rest of the case practically assembled itself.
There were texts between Kwesi and Marcus.
Need it on a day I’m traveling. Need airtight alibi.
Fire is best. Hard to trace.
Can’t leave the kid behind either.
That line nearly stopped my heart.
He had written about killing our son the way a man writes about moving a piece of furniture out of the way.
Not with rage. Not even with passion.
With convenience.
Hatred settled inside me then—not hot, not wild, but cold and clean. The kind that remains after grief burns away denial.
“Is this enough?” I asked. “To arrest him?”
