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.
We ran until our lungs burned, didn’t stop until the car doors slammed shut and the engine roared to life.
Only then did I let myself breathe.
Back at her office, we emptied the backpack onto the desk.
The notebook fell open.
Dates. Amounts. Names. Due lines. And then the words that made my stomach turn.
Final solution.
Ayira’s life insurance.
Has to look accidental.
Fire.
Service fee paid.
He had written it down.
Attorney Okafor exhaled slowly. “People like him think planning makes them untouchable.”
The phones were unlocked by dawn. Messages spilled out, cold and precise.
Fire is clean.
Kid can’t be left behind.
Alibi solid.
I felt something inside me harden into steel.
By morning, Detective Hightower had everything.
By midmorning, Quasi was calling. Texting. Panicking.
I sent one message.
Centennial Olympic Park. Ten a.m. Come alone.
He replied instantly.
Things aren’t how you think.
The park was full of sunlight and children and laughter. Officers blended into the crowd like they belonged there. I sat on a bench near the fountain, wire taped to my chest, hands steady in my lap.
Quasi approached fast, eyes wild, relief breaking across his face when he saw me alive.
“Thank God,” he said, reaching for me.
I stepped back.
He started talking. Explaining. Lying.
Debt. Pressure. Accidents.
Then he asked for the notebook.
That was when I stood.
“You tried to kill us,” I said calmly. “And you failed.”
Something in him snapped.
He ran.
Then he grabbed me.
Knife. Cold. Sharp. Pressed to my throat.
The park went silent.
“You ruined everything,” he hissed.
“You were never in control,” I said softly. “You just pretended you were.”
The shot echoed.
He went down.
It was over.
The trial followed. Guilty on all counts. No confusion. No mercy.
Kenzo slept through the night again eventually. So did I.
Years later, our house is small. Ordinary. Safe.
Kenzo laughs easily now. He still watches everything, but he smiles more than he scans.
Sometimes he asks if I believed him that day.
I always answer the same way.
“I believed you. And I always will.”
Because that whisper in the airport saved our lives.
And because sometimes, the bravest voice in the room belongs to the smallest person who refuses to stay silent.
