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.

Now my wallet was probably burning in the remains of a house that used to feel like security.

But the number was in my phone, saved in a note I’d typed months ago, just in case.

My hands shook as I pulled the screen up and tapped the digits.

Kenzo watched me, eyes wide and trusting in a way that made my throat ache.

One ring.

Two.

I could barely hear it over the distant sirens.

On the third ring, a woman answered.

“Attorney Okafor.”

Her voice was firm, low, and tired, like she’d been awake too long and had no patience for nonsense. It was exactly what I needed.

“Ms. Okafor,” I blurted, words tumbling out. “My name is Ayira Vance. My father was Langston Vance. He gave me your number. I need help. I think my husband tried to kill me and my son.”

Silence.

Then, softer: “Langston’s girl.”

My eyes stung. Hearing my father named like that, in that moment, felt like a hand reaching across the distance between life and death.

“Where are you?” she asked.

I looked around at the neighborhood, the street signs I couldn’t see clearly in the dark, the chaos near the burning house. I realized with sudden humiliation that I didn’t even know how to describe where I was.