We were almost at the glass doors when he stopped so suddenly I nearly stumbled.
“Mama.”
I turned, annoyed for half a second, then instantly alarmed by the sound of his voice.
“What is it?”
He looked up at me, and the fear in his eyes punched the air out of my chest.
“Mama,” he whispered, tugging my hand hard, “we can’t go back home.”
I crouched in front of him, trying to keep my voice calm. “What do you mean? Of course we’re going home. It’s late.”
He shook his head violently, tears already pooling. “No. Please. We can’t. Something bad is going to happen.”
A few people glanced our way. I gently pulled him closer.
“Kenzo, baby, listen to me. You’re safe. Daddy’s just on a trip. Nothing bad is going to happen.”
“Mama, please,” he said, his voice breaking. “This time you have to believe me.”
This time.
The words stung because they were deserved.
A few weeks earlier, he’d told me about a dark car parked in front of our Buckhead house late at night. I’d brushed it off. Another time, he mentioned hearing his dad talking in his office about “fixing things for good.” I’d told him grown-up conversations weren’t for kids.
Now he was shaking in front of me, begging.
I took a breath. “Okay,” I said quietly. “Tell me what you heard.”
He leaned close, lips brushing my ear.
“This morning,” he whispered, “I woke up early to get water. Daddy was in his office on the phone. He said tonight something bad was going to happen while we were sleeping. He said he needed to be far away. That we wouldn’t be in his way anymore.”
The world tilted.
I pulled back and searched his face. “Are you sure, baby?”
He nodded, frantic. “He said people were going to take care of it. His voice was scary, Mama. Not like Daddy.”
My first instinct was denial. To explain it away. To tell myself this was a misunderstanding.
But memories surfaced uninvited.
Quasi insisting everything be in his name.
Quasi increasing his life insurance policy.
Late-night calls behind locked doors.
That phrase I’d overheard once, half asleep: It has to look accidental.
I stood slowly.
“Okay,” I said. “I believe you.”
Relief flooded Kenzo’s face so fast it hurt to see.
We walked to the car in silence. I buckled him in, my hands shaking, then drove—past our usual route, circling wide, approaching our street from the back.
I parked on a side road, engine off, headlights dark.
Our house sat there like always. Porch light on. Curtains drawn. Quiet.
We waited.
Minutes passed.
Then a dark van turned onto our street.
It moved too slowly. Too deliberately.
It stopped in front of our house.
Two men stepped out.
They weren’t delivery drivers. They weren’t neighbors.
One of them reached into his pocket.
Not for a tool.
For a key.
He unlocked our front door.
The house swallowed them whole.
“Mama,” Kenzo whispered, gripping my arm. “How do they have a key?”
I couldn’t answer.
Then I smelled it.
Gasoline.
And a thin line of smoke curled from the window.
My heart seized.
Fire bloomed inside my home.
I lunged forward instinctively, then froze as flames swallowed the living room, climbing fast, merciless.
Sirens wailed in the distance.
The van sped away.
Kenzo wrapped his arms around me from behind as I collapsed onto the curb, staring at the inferno that used to be our life.
My phone vibrated in my hand.
A text from Quasi.
Just landed. Hope you and Kenzo are sleeping well. Love you.
I stared at the screen, then at the burning house.
And in that moment, I understood the truth.
If I hadn’t believed my son at the airport, we would have been inside.
Asleep.
And I realized, with sickening clarity, that the danger wasn’t over yet.
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