—Tiene razón —dijo en voz baja—. Y no tenemos tiempo para fingir que no la tiene.
Apreté mi mano sobre mi boca, tratando de mantener mi respiración constante.
Regresar a aquella casa, a aquella cáscara quemada, fue como entrar en la boca de un monstruo.
Pero permanecer pasivo se sentía peor.
Porque Quasi ya había hecho su movimiento.
Y si no nos movíamos nosotros, lo haría él.
Miré a Kenzo, ese niño valiente y conmocionado que había salvado nuestras vidas con un susurro en un aeropuerto.
—De acuerdo —dije, casi sin poder contener la voz—. Pero quédate conmigo cada segundo. ¿Me oyes? Cada segundo.
Kenzo asintió una vez.
La abogada Okafor se puso de pie. «Bien», dijo. «Nos vamos cuando oscurezca».
Y a medida que el día avanzaba, pesado y lleno de miedo, me di cuenta de algo más que hizo que mi estómago se encogiera aún más.
Si Quasi había contratado hombres una vez, podría contratarlos nuevamente.
Lo que significaba que esta noche, cuando regresáramos a los restos de nuestra casa, no solo estaríamos buscando evidencia.
Competiríamos con las personas enviadas para asegurarnos de que no quedaran cabos sueltos.
We left after sunset.
Atlanta wore a different face at night, softer at the edges, shadows pooling where certainty used to live. Attorney Okafor drove without music, both hands steady on the wheel, eyes flicking to the mirrors every few seconds. Kenzo sat in the back seat in borrowed clothes, his dinosaur backpack clutched tight against his chest like a promise he intended to keep.
No one spoke.
Every sound felt too loud. Tires on asphalt. A distant siren. The low hum of the engine.
When we turned into our neighborhood, the streetlights cast long, broken shadows across the pavement. The caution tape was still up, fluttering lazily, yellow against black. The smell hit first. Smoke, wet and bitter, clinging to the air like it refused to leave.
Attorney Okafor parked two blocks away.
“Twenty minutes,” she said quietly. “I stay outside. If I make noise, you run. No hesitation.”
I nodded, my throat too tight for words.
Kenzo slipped his hand into mine. It was warm. Solid. Real.
We moved through the narrow path behind the houses, over the low wall, our shoes crunching softly on gravel. The backyard looked smaller than I remembered, scorched patches of grass lit faintly by moonlight.
The back door hung crooked, blackened by fire. When I pushed it, it opened with a long, exhausted groan.
Inside, the house was unrecognizable.
Walls were charred to bone. The ceiling sagged, heavy with water. Ash coated everything, turning familiar spaces into ghosts. The kitchen island where Kenzo used to do homework was warped and split, metal appliances blistered like they’d been burned alive.
I didn’t let myself stop.
“Daddy’s office,” Kenzo whispered, tugging me forward.
The stairs creaked under our weight, soaked and unstable. Halfway up, the railing gave way where fire had eaten through it. I pressed Kenzo close, my heart pounding so hard it felt like it might crack my ribs.
The office door was swollen but intact. I shoved, shoulder screaming in protest, until it gave.
The smell inside was different. Smoke mixed with cologne and something metallic.
The painting that hid the safe was gone, burned to nothing.
The safe stood exposed.
I punched in Quasi’s birthday.
Beep.
Green light.
The door swung open.
Inside were stacks of cash, rubber-banded and careless. Passports. A cheap burner phone. A slim black notebook.
“Take everything,” I whispered.
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.
