My phone vibrated in my pocket. With trembling hands, I picked it up. It was a message from Richard.
“Honey, just landed. I hope you and Matthew are sleeping well, and I love you both. See you soon.”
I read the message once, twice, three times. Every word was a knife. Every heart emoji was poison. He knew. Of course he knew. He was in another state, building his perfect alibi, while he hired people to kill us, to burn us alive while we slept. And then he would return as the devastated husband, the grieving father. He would cry at the wake, receive condolences, and he would keep everything—the life insurance, the house, or what was left of it, the bank account. Free.
That was what Matthew heard him say on the phone.
“I am finally going to be free.”
Free of me. Free of his son.
The nausea came with force. I turned around and vomited right there on the sidewalk. Everything I had in my stomach came out, along with any illusion I still had about my marriage. When I finally could stop, I wiped my mouth with the sleeve of my blouse and looked at Matthew. He was sitting on the curb, hugging his knees, watching the house burn. Tears rolled down his little face, but he was not sobbing anymore, just watching. A six-year-old child should not have that expression, that terrible and premature understanding that people who should love you can want to hurt you.
I sat beside him and pulled him into a tight hug.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered into his hair. “I am sorry for not believing you sooner. I am sorry for everything.”
He held on to me as if I were the only solid thing in a world that had turned upside down. And maybe I was.
“What are we going to do now, Mom?”
It was the million-dollar question, wasn’t it? What do you do when you discover that the man who promised to love and protect you actually wants to see you dead? We could not go back home. A home did not even exist to go back to anymore. We could not go to the police. Richard had an ironclad alibi, and it was just me and the word of a six-year-old boy against his. We could not go to friends or family. Everyone would think I was crazy, in shock from the fire, making things up. And Richard… Richard was free, flying back at that very moment, probably practicing the expression of shock and sadness he was going to use when he “discovered” the tragedy.
We needed help. Help from someone Richard did not know. Someone who could understand. Someone who knew how to deal with… with what? Attempted murder, conspiracy to kill.
It was then that I remembered.
My dad, before dying two years ago, had given me a card. It was on a difficult day, right after his cancer diagnosis. He called me to the hospital room, took my hand, and said, “Emily, I do not trust that husband of yours. I never trusted him. If one day you need help, real help, look for this person.”
The card had a name: Attorney Jennifer Hernandez, lawyer, and a phone number. At that moment, I was offended. How could my dad not trust Richard? Richard, who was so attentive to him, who visited him in the hospital, who paid for the best doctors.
But now, now I understood. My father saw something I refused to see, and he left me a way out.
I grabbed the phone again. The battery was at 23%. I needed to make a quick decision.
“Matthew, remember that card Grandpa gave me? The one I kept in my wallet?”
He nodded.
“I am going to call the person on it. She is going to help us.”
At least I hoped so.
With trembling fingers, I dialed the number. Three rings, four. It was going to go to voicemail when a female voice, raspy but firm, answered.
“Hello. Attorney Jennifer.”
“My name is Emily. Emily Oliver. You do not know me, but my father… my father was Robert Oliver. He gave me your number. I… I need a lot of help.”
There was a pause.
“Emily, Robert told me about you. Where are you?”
“My house just burned down. I am on the street with my son, and my husband… my husband tried to kill us.”
Another pause. Longer. When she spoke again, the voice was different, more urgent.
“Are you safe now? Can you drive?”
“Yes.”
“Then write down this address.”
Attorney Jennifer’s office was in an old building downtown, the kind of place you pass by without noticing. It did not have a flashy sign, just a small faded plaque: J. Hernandez, Legal Counsel. It was almost midnight when I parked in front. The street was deserted, only a few streetlights working. Matthew had fallen asleep in the back seat during the ride, exhausted from so much crying. I had to carry him in my arms.
Before I rang the bell, the door opened. A woman was there. She must have been about sixty, gray hair pulled back in a bun, glasses hanging from a chain. She wore a simple blouse and jeans, as if she had been woken up, but her eyes were alert, analyzing every detail of me and Matthew.
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