If we had gone home, we would have been inside when the fire started.
Sleeping.
Trapped.
And those men would have made sure the house finished what they came there to do.
I dropped to my knees in the dark street and stared at my home turning to ash.
Then my phone buzzed in my pocket.
I looked down with trembling hands.
It was a text from Kwesi.
Just landed. Hope you and Kenzo are sleeping well. Love you guys. See you soon.
I read it once. Twice. Three times.
Every word felt poisonous.
Of course he knew. He had built the perfect alibi in another state while strangers set fire to our home. He would return as the devastated husband, the grieving father. He would cry on television. Accept condolences. Collect the life insurance. Keep everything.
That was what Kenzo heard.
I’m finally going to be free.
Free of me.
Free of his own son.
The nausea came so suddenly I barely made it to the curb before I threw up.
When I finally stopped shaking enough to breathe, I looked at Kenzo. He was sitting on the edge of the sidewalk, knees pulled to his chest, watching the flames with the blank stillness of a child who had just learned something no child should ever have to learn: that the people who claim to love you can want you dead.
I went to him, pulled him into my arms, and held on.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered into his hair. “I’m so sorry I didn’t listen sooner.”
He clung to me as if I were the last solid thing left in the world.
“What are we going to do now, Mama?”
That was the question that mattered.
What do you do when you realize your husband has tried to murder you and your child?
We could not go home. There was no home anymore.
We could not go to friends. Most of them knew him better than they knew me.
We could not show up at a neighbor’s door sounding half-crazed and expect to be believed.
The police? Maybe. But Kwesi had his plane ticket, his hotel, his polished explanation. I had nothing except a child’s testimony, a gut full of dread, and the memory of two men using a key to enter my house.
We needed help.
Help from someone outside Kwesi’s circle.
Help from someone who would not dismiss me.
That was when I remembered my father.
Two years before, not long after his cancer diagnosis, Grandpa Langston had called me to his hospital room one rainy afternoon and pressed a business card into my hand.
“Ayira,” he said, in the quiet voice that meant he was serious, “I don’t trust that husband of yours. Never have. If you ever need help—real help—call this woman.”
At the time I was hurt. More than hurt. Offended. Kwesi had been attentive with him, visiting the hospital, asking doctors questions, making a show of concern that looked genuine enough to fool me.
But my father saw something I refused to see.
The card was for an attorney.
Zunaira Okafor.
A phone number was written on the back in my father’s tight, careful handwriting.
I dug my wallet out of my purse with unsteady fingers and found the card tucked behind an old store receipt.
My phone battery was at twenty-three percent.
I took a breath and called.
It rang three times. Four.
I was sure it would go to voicemail when a woman answered, her voice low and slightly rough.
“Attorney Okafor speaking.”
