“Ms. Okafor,” I said. “My name is Ayira Vance. You don’t know me, but my father—my father was Langston Vance. He gave me your number. I need help.”
There was a pause.
Then she said, “Ayira. Langston told me about you. Where are you?”
I looked at the blaze devouring my house. “My house just burned down. I’m in the street with my son. And my husband tried to kill us.”
The silence on the other end deepened.
When she spoke again, her tone had changed.
“Are you safe right now? Can you drive?”
“Yes.”
“Then write down this address.”
Her office was in Sweet Auburn, in an old brick building most people would pass without noticing. No flashy signage. No polished corporate entrance. Just a narrow brass plaque beside the door that read Okafor Legal Counsel.
By the time I parked out front, it was close to midnight.
The street was nearly deserted. A single streetlamp flickered across the sidewalk. Kenzo had fallen asleep in the back seat sometime during the drive, worn out by fear and tears. I had to carry him to the door.
Before I could knock, it opened.
A woman in her sixties stood there with silver-streaked locs pinned into a bun and reading glasses hanging from a chain around her neck. She wore jeans, a loose blouse, and the alert expression of someone who missed nothing.
“Ayira?”
“Yes.”
“Come inside. Quickly.”
I stepped in, and she locked the door behind us with three separate deadbolts.
The office smelled like coffee, paper, and old wood. Files were stacked everywhere. Legal pads covered the desk. A floor lamp cast a pool of warm light over a worn leather chair.
“Put the boy on that sofa,” she said. “There’s a blanket on the chair.”
I laid Kenzo down as gently as I could and covered him.
“Coffee?” she asked.
I opened my mouth to refuse, but she was already pouring it into thick ceramic mugs.
She handed one to me, pointed to the chair opposite her desk, and said, “Sit down. Start at the beginning. Leave nothing out.”
So I told her everything.
I told her about the airport. About Kenzo stopping me before we went home. About the warning he overheard that morning. About the strange car he had seen outside the house days before and the quiet way I had dismissed him. I told her about hiding on the street near our home, about the van, the two men, the key, the smell of gasoline, the fire. About Kwesi’s text message arriving while the flames were still climbing toward the roof.
She did not interrupt once.
She sat very still, fingers laced together under her chin, and listened.
When I finished, she was silent for a long moment.
Then she said, “Your father asked me to watch out for you if something like this ever happened. Langston Vance was one of the smartest men I’ve ever known.”
A pain went through me so sharp I had to look down into my coffee.
“He knew?” I whispered. “He knew Kwesi was capable of this?”
“He suspected,” she said. “He suspected your husband was not who he pretended to be.”
She crossed to a locked filing cabinet in the corner, opened it, and brought back a thick folder. She laid it on the desk between us.
“Three years ago, your father hired a private investigator. Quietly. He wanted Kwesi’s business dealings looked into.”
My pulse stuttered.
“And what did he find?”
