“The police are at the house,” I said. “It’s a crime scene.”
“They’ll secure it today,” she replied. “Tonight, it’s mostly tape and tired patrol passes. And Quasi will be somewhere else, pretending to grieve.”
My stomach tightened. “You’re suggesting we go back.”
“I’m not suggesting,” she said. “I’m telling you the truth. The evidence you need is in that safe. If we wait, it disappears.”
I looked toward Kenzo. He had heard everything. He sat up on the bed, face pale but steady, like he’d been forced to grow up overnight.
“I’m going with you,” he said.
“No,” I snapped automatically, panic rising. “Absolutely not.”
Kenzo’s chin lifted, stubborn and terrified at the same time. “Mama, I know where Daddy hides things. I watch. I always watch.”
The words made my throat close.
Attorney Okafor watched him for a long moment, then looked at me.
“He’s right,” she said quietly. “And we don’t have time to pretend he isn’t.”
I pressed my hand to my mouth, trying to keep my breathing steady.
Going back to that house, that burned shell, felt like stepping into the mouth of a monster.
But staying passive felt worse.
Because Quasi had already made his move.
And if we didn’t move next, he would.
I looked at Kenzo, this brave, shaken child who had saved our lives with a whisper in an airport.
“Okay,” I said, voice barely holding. “But you stay with me every second. You hear me? Every second.”
Kenzo nodded once.
Attorney Okafor stood. “Good,” she said. “Then we leave after dark.”
And as the day crawled forward, heavy with dread, I realized something else that made my stomach drop even harder.
If Quasi had hired men once, he could hire them again.
Which meant tonight, when we walked back into the remains of our home, we wouldn’t just be searching for evidence.
We’d be racing the people who were sent to make sure there were no loose ends.
Atlanta wore a different face at night, softer at the edges, shadows pooling where certainty used to live. Attorney Okafor drove without music, both hands steady on the wheel, eyes flicking to the mirrors every few seconds. Kenzo sat in the back seat in borrowed clothes, his dinosaur backpack clutched tight against his chest like a promise he intended to keep.
No one spoke.
Every sound felt too loud. Tires on asphalt. A distant siren. The low hum of the engine.
When we turned into our neighborhood, the streetlights cast long, broken shadows across the pavement. The caution tape was still up, fluttering lazily, yellow against black. The smell hit first. Smoke, wet and bitter, clinging to the air like it refused to leave.
Attorney Okafor parked two blocks away.
“Twenty minutes,” she said quietly. “I stay outside. If I make noise, you run. No hesitation.”
I nodded, my throat too tight for words.
Kenzo slipped his hand into mine. It was warm. Solid. Real.
We moved through the narrow path behind the houses, over the low wall, our shoes crunching softly on gravel. The backyard looked smaller than I remembered, scorched patches of grass lit faintly by moonlight.
The back door hung crooked, blackened by fire. When I pushed it, it opened with a long, exhausted groan.
