One ring.
Two.
I could barely hear it over the distant sirens.
On the third ring, a woman answered.
“Attorney Okafor.”
Her voice was firm, low, and tired, like she’d been awake too long and had no patience for nonsense. It was exactly what I needed.
“Ms. Okafor,” I blurted, words tumbling out. “My name is Ayira Vance. My father was Langston Vance. He gave me your number. I need help. I think my husband tried to kill me and my son.”
Silence.
Then, softer: “Langston’s girl.”
My eyes stung. Hearing my father named like that, in that moment, felt like a hand reaching across the distance between life and death.
“Where are you?” she asked.
I looked around at the neighborhood, the street signs I couldn’t see clearly in the dark, the chaos near the burning house. I realized with sudden humiliation that I didn’t even know how to describe where I was.
“My house is burning,” I said. “Buckhead. I’m on a side street behind it. We’re safe for the moment.”
“Can you drive?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Then listen carefully,” she said. “Get in your car right now. Do not talk to neighbors. Do not talk to police. Do not answer your husband. Drive to this address.”
She gave me a location in Sweet Auburn, her words crisp, as if she’d given directions to frightened women before.
“Come now,” she added. “And Ayira. If anyone calls you, you do not pick up. Not even family. Understand?”
My stomach knotted, but I nodded anyway, even though she couldn’t see me.
“Yes.”
“Good. Go.”
I hung up and sat for half a second, letting the phone drop into my lap like it weighed a hundred pounds.
