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.

My knees buckled. I sank down hard onto the curb, the concrete cold through my clothes. I heard myself breathing, fast and shallow, like I’d just run. The smell of smoke clung to the back of my throat.

My phone still sat open in my palm, Quasi’s text shining bright and cheerful.

Just landed. Hope you and Kenzo are sleeping well. Love you guys.

A poison lullaby.

He was building the alibi while the house burned. He was on the other end of the country making sure his timeline was clean, while men with a key walked through our front door.

My stomach rolled. I turned my head and vomited into the gutter, sharp and sour, the kind of sickness that comes from your body realizing the world is no longer safe.

Kenzo’s hands patted my back, uncertain. He was trying to comfort me like I was the child.

“I’m sorry, Mama,” he whispered. “I’m sorry.”

I wiped my mouth on my sleeve and pulled him into me, holding him tight enough to feel his heartbeat.

“No,” I said hoarsely. “No, baby. You saved us.”

He didn’t answer. He just clung to me, shaking.