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.

Kenzo moved to the far corner, kneeling beside a loose floorboard. He pried it up with practiced fingers.

“There,” he breathed.

Another phone. Sleek. New. And a sealed envelope.

I stuffed it all into the backpack.

That’s when we heard voices downstairs.

“Police said the site was clear,” a man said. His voice was low, irritated.

“Boss wanted it checked,” another answered. “Just in case.”

My blood went cold.

Kenzo’s eyes met mine.

Closet.

We slipped inside, barely pulling the door shut as flashlight beams swept across the office. Heavy footsteps creaked closer. One of them laughed softly.

“Safe’s open,” he said. “That ain’t right.”

Another pause.

“And these?” the second man said, his light dropping to the floor. “Footprints. Too small.”

A breath held too long.

“A kid?” the first voice said.

“Call Quasi,” the second snapped.

From outside, a scream tore through the night.

Raw. Terrified. Female.

The men cursed and ran.

I didn’t wait.

We bolted down the stairs, out the back door, into the yard. Attorney Okafor was pale, breathing hard, one hand pressed to her chest.

“Did you get it?” she hissed.

I nodded, swinging the backpack onto my shoulder.