Right after my husband left for his business trip, my six-year-old gripped my hand and quietly said, “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 realized with sickening clarity that the danger was not over just because the house was gone. The firefighters arrived quickly and their lights strobed through the trees.

Neighbors spilled onto the street in their robes and slippers. Someone shouted my name but I stayed hidden in the shadows.

My body would not move. It felt as if my muscles had turned to stone.

Toby pressed against my side and cried without making a sound. He was trying to be brave for me.

I watched the flames make the house look alive. The upstairs windows exploded outward with a sharp pop.

The fire climbed toward Toby’s bedroom. My knees buckled and I sank onto the cold concrete.

Dominic was building his alibi while his family was supposed to be burning. He was on the other side of the country making sure his timeline was clean.

My stomach rolled and I vomited into the gutter. It was the kind of sickness that comes when you realize your world is a lie.

Toby patted my back with an uncertain hand. “I am sorry, Mom,” he whispered.

I wiped my mouth and pulled him into a tight embrace. “No, you saved us,” I said hoarsely.