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.

“Do you know the combination?”

I hesitated, ashamed by how easily the answer came. “His birthday.”

Attorney Okafor nodded once, like that confirmed something she already believed. “We need what’s in it.”

“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.