After my husband boarded a plane for a business trip, my six-year-old suddenly tugged my hand and whispered, “Mom… we can’t go back home. This morning I heard Dad on the phone, talking about something that involves us—and it didn’t sound right.” So we didn’t go back.

The city felt different after midnight. Atlanta still glowed, but in a quieter way. Streetlights blurred past, orange and soft. The freeway was emptier, the sound of tires on asphalt a steady hiss. Kenzo fell asleep in the back seat, his dinosaur backpack hugged tight against his chest like armor.

I kept checking my mirrors, paranoid, expecting headlights to follow. Every car that merged behind me felt like a threat.

When I reached Sweet Auburn, the neighborhood was mostly dark. A single streetlamp flickered, casting weak light on brick buildings and quiet sidewalks. A 24-hour diner glowed at the corner, a few cars parked outside like little islands of safety.

Attorney Okafor’s office was in a narrow brick building with a plain door and a small buzzer.

Before I could press it, the door opened.

She stood there in jeans and a simple blouse, gray locs pulled back, reading glasses hanging on a chain around her neck. Her eyes were sharp enough to cut through lies.

“Ayira?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Come in,” she said. “Quickly.”

The moment we stepped inside, she locked the door.

One deadbolt.

Then another.

Then another.