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.

And I saw Quasi’s text, bright and casual, as if he hadn’t just tried to erase us.

Around dawn, Kenzo stirred. “Mama,” he whispered, confused, blinking in the dim light. “Where are we?”

I kissed his forehead. “Somewhere safe,” I whispered back. “Go back to sleep.”

At seven, Attorney Okafor knocked once and opened the door.

“Turn on the TV,” she said.

We watched the news footage in silence.

Our house was a blackened shell. Smoke still curled from the ruins. Firefighters stepped over charred beams. The reporter’s voice was solemn.

Then the camera cut to Quasi.

He stood in front of the wreckage, face arranged into horror, wrinkled shirt like he’d been up all night grieving.

“My wife,” he cried. “My son. Somebody tell me they weren’t in there!”

I watched his hands clutch the fire chief’s jacket.

Then Quasi said it, and my skin crawled.

“Did you find the bodies yet?”

Not, did you find them.

The bodies.

Attorney Okafor clicked the TV off.

“He’s performing,” she said. “And he’ll keep performing until he realizes there’s no audience that can save him.”

She sat across from me, expression hard again.

“Ayira,” she said, “does Quasi have a safe in his home office?”

My heart lurched. “Yes.”