I pulled back and searched his face. “Are you sure, baby?”
He nodded, frantic. “He said people were going to take care of it. His voice was scary, Mama. Not like Daddy.”
My first instinct was denial. To explain it away. To tell myself this was a misunderstanding.
But memories surfaced uninvited.
Quasi insisting everything be in his name.
Quasi increasing his life insurance policy.
Late-night calls behind locked doors.
That phrase I’d overheard once, half asleep: It has to look accidental.
I stood slowly.
“Okay,” I said. “I believe you.”
Relief flooded Kenzo’s face so fast it hurt to see.
We walked to the car in silence. I buckled him in, my hands shaking, then drove—past our usual route, circling wide, approaching our street from the back.
I parked on a side road, engine off, headlights dark.
Our house sat there like always. Porch light on. Curtains drawn. Quiet.
We waited.
Minutes passed.
Then a dark van turned onto our street.
It moved too slowly. Too deliberately.
It stopped in front of our house.
Two men stepped out.
They weren’t delivery drivers. They weren’t neighbors.
One of them reached into his pocket.
Not for a tool.
For a key.
He unlocked our front door.
The house swallowed them whole.
“Mama,” Kenzo whispered, gripping my arm. “How do they have a key?”
I couldn’t answer.
Then I smelled it.
Gasoline.
And a thin line of smoke curled from the window.
My heart seized.
Fire bloomed inside my home.
I lunged forward instinctively, then froze as flames swallowed the living room, climbing fast, merciless.
Sirens wailed in the distance.
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