We started walking down the long airport corridor, our steps echoing on the floor. Matthew was even quieter now, and I could feel the tension in his small body through the hand holding mine.
“Everything okay, sweetie? You are very quiet today.”
He did not answer immediately. We kept walking, passing closed shops, flight schedule screens, people rushing with suitcases. It was only when we got near the exit, when the automatic glass doors were already in sight, that he stopped. He stopped so abruptly that I almost tripped.
“Matthew, what is wrong?”
It was then that he looked at me. And God, that look, I will never forget it. It was pure terror, that kind of fear a six-year-old boy should not even know.
“Mom,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “We cannot go back home.”
My heart did a strange jump in my chest. I crouched down in front of him, holding his two little arms.
“What do you mean, son? Of course, we are going home. It is late. You need to sleep.”
“No.”
His voice came out louder, desperate. Some people turned their heads to look at us. He swallowed hard and continued, now in an urgent whisper.
“Mom, please. We cannot go back. Believe me this time. Please. This time.”
Those two words hurt me, because it was true. Weeks ago, Matthew had told me he saw a strange car parked in front of our house. The same car. Three nights in a row. I told him it was a coincidence. Days later, he swore he had heard Dad talking quietly in the office about resolving the problem once and for all. I told him it was work matters, that he should not listen to adult conversations. I did not believe him.
And now he was begging me, with tears starting to form in those brown eyes.
“This time.”
“Believe me. Matthew, explain to me what is going on.”
My voice came out firmer than I felt inside. He looked around as if afraid someone might hear him. Then he pulled my arm, making me lean in even closer to him, and whispered in my ear.
“This morning, very early, I woke up before everyone. I went for water and heard Dad in his office. He was on the phone. He said that tonight, when we were sleeping, something bad was going to happen. That he needed to be far away when it happened. That we… that we were not going to be in his way anymore.”
My blood froze.
“Matthew, are you sure? Are you sure of what you heard?”
He nodded, desperate.
“He said there were people who were going to take care of it. He said he was finally going to be free. Mom, his voice… it was not Dad’s voice. It was different, scary.”
My first instinct was to deny it, to say it was imagination, that he had misunderstood, that Richard would never… But then I remembered things, small things I had ignored. Richard increasing his life insurance three months ago, saying it was just a precaution. Richard insisting that I put everything—the house in the suburbs, the car, even the joint account—only in his name.
“It makes taxes easier, honey.”
Richard getting angry when I mentioned I wanted to go back to work.
“It is not necessary. I take care of everything.”
The strange calls he answered locked in the office, the increasingly frequent trips, and that conversation I heard by accident two weeks ago when I thought he was asleep. He was muttering on the phone.
“Yes, I know the risk, but there is no other way. It has to look accidental.”
At that moment, I convinced myself it was about work, about some risky business deal. But what if it was not?
I looked at Matthew, at that terrified face, at the tears rolling down, at his trembling hands, and I made the most important decision of my life.
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