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.

I showed her the text from Quasi, my hands shaking so badly I almost dropped my phone.

She listened without interrupting, her gaze steady, her face unreadable.

When I finished, I sat there breathing hard, like I’d run a mile.

The room hummed with the old air conditioner. Somewhere outside, a car passed slowly, bass thumping faintly.

Attorney Okafor leaned back in her chair.

“Your father asked me to watch out for you,” she said quietly.

My throat tightened. “He thought something like this would happen?”

“He didn’t know the details,” she said. “But he knew your husband wasn’t what he pretended to be.”

She stood and walked to a tall metal filing cabinet, unlocked the bottom drawer, and pulled out a thick folder worn at the edges.

She set it on the desk like she was laying down a weapon.

“Three years ago, your father hired a private investigator,” she said. “He wanted Quasi looked into. Quietly.”

My stomach dropped. “What did they find?”

Attorney Okafor opened the folder, flipping through pages with practiced precision.

“Debt,” she said. “A lot of it. Your husband has a gambling problem. Underground games. Dangerous lenders. The kind of people who don’t accept apologies, only payments.”