She opened the folder.
“Debt,” she said. “A lot of it. Gambling debt, mostly. Underground casinos, private tables, loan sharks. Your husband owes dangerous people a great deal of money.”
Inside the folder were bank statements, photos, surveillance stills, typed reports.
“His companies have been bankrupt for two years,” she went on. “He’s been plugging the gaps with money that belonged to you.”
I stared at her.
“My mother’s inheritance?”
The words barely came out.
Your mother left you one hundred and fifty thousand dollars. You placed it in a joint account after you got married.”
Because Kwesi said that was what marriage meant.
What’s mine is yours, babe.
“He spent every cent,” Zunaira said quietly. “And he still owes close to half a million dollars.”
I felt like I had been punched in the chest.
“But we don’t have that kind of money,” I said. “So why…”
She looked at me steadily.
“The life insurance.”
I went cold all over again.
“Your father insisted on a policy when you got married. Do you remember? You are insured for two and a half million dollars.”
I remembered Kwesi calling it excessive at the time, then eventually agreeing because my father would not budge.
I had never thought about it again.
“And if I died in an accident,” I said slowly, hearing the logic as it formed, “Kwesi gets the payout.”
“Exactly.”
I closed my eyes.
“And a fire,” she said, “is a very convenient accident when it’s done properly. Hard to prove arson if professionals handle it. Hard to trace. And he has an alibi. He was in another state.”
“But I didn’t die. Kenzo didn’t die.”
“No,” she said. “And he doesn’t know that yet.”
Something shifted in me at the way she said it.
“You want him to believe, for now, that his plan worked.”
She leaned back in her chair.
“Ayira, if you go to the police this minute, what do you have? No recording. No documents. No witnesses except your son, who may be dismissed as a frightened child. Your husband will cry on command and look heartbroken. Men like that are often very good at grieving for cameras.”
I hated how right she sounded.
“But what about the men who burned the house?” I asked. “Won’t investigators find something?”
“Maybe. Maybe not. If they are professionals, they will leave very little. And if your husband hired them through layers of intermediaries, it could take months. You don’t have months.”
I looked over at Kenzo sleeping on the sofa, his cheeks still streaked from tears.
“What do I do then?” I whispered. “Everything is gone. My IDs, my cards, my money. I have nowhere to go.”
Zunaira’s expression softened just enough to matter.
“You have me,” she said. “And you have one advantage Kwesi doesn’t know about.”
“What?”
