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 back door hung crooked, blackened by fire. When I pushed it, it opened with a long, exhausted groan.

Inside, the house was unrecognizable.

Walls were charred to bone. The ceiling sagged, heavy with water. Ash coated everything, turning familiar spaces into ghosts. The kitchen island where Kenzo used to do homework was warped and split, metal appliances blistered like they’d been burned alive.

I didn’t let myself stop.

“Daddy’s office,” Kenzo whispered, tugging me forward.

The stairs creaked under our weight, soaked and unstable. Halfway up, the railing gave way where fire had eaten through it. I pressed Kenzo close, my heart pounding so hard it felt like it might crack my ribs.

The office door was swollen but intact. I shoved, shoulder screaming in protest, until it gave.

The smell inside was different. Smoke mixed with cologne and something metallic.

The painting that hid the safe was gone, burned to nothing.

The safe stood exposed.

I punched in Quasi’s birthday.

Beep.

Green light.

The door swung open.

Inside were stacks of cash, rubber-banded and careless. Passports. A cheap burner phone. A slim black notebook.

“Take everything,” I whispered.