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.

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.

We left after sunset.