The flames grew fast, terrifyingly fast. In a matter of minutes, the living room was totally engulfed. The fire licked the walls, broke the windows, climbed to the second floor where Leo’s room was.
That was when the siren started. Someone must have seen the smoke and called the fire department. The dark van sped off without turning on the lights, disappearing around the corner seconds before the first fire truck appeared.
I was shaking so much I could barely stand. Leo was hugging me from behind, his little face buried in my back, sobbing.
“You were right,” I murmured. “You were right, son. You were right.”
If we had gone back home, if I had not believed him, we would be in there now, sleeping, unknowing. And those men would have… would have…
I could not complete the thought. My legs gave way and I fell to my knees right there in the middle of the dark street, watching my life turn into ashes.
My cell phone vibrated in my pocket. With trembling hands, I picked it up. It was a text message from James.
“Babe, I just landed. Hope you and Leo are sleeping well. Love you guys. 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 hiring 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 funeral. He would 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 Leo 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 threw up 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 my sleeve and looked at Leo. He was sitting on the curb, hugging his knees, watching the house burn. Tears rolled down his little face. But he was no longer sobbing, 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 am sorry,” I whispered into his little head. “I am sorry for not believing you before. 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, was it not? 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. There was not even a house to go back to anymore. We could not go to the police. James 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 James… James 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 James 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:
“Sarah, I do not trust that husband of yours. I never trusted him. If one day you need help, real help, find this person.”
The card had a name—Attorney Catherine Roberts—and a phone number. At that moment, I was offended. How could my dad not trust James? James, 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 picked up the cell phone again. The battery was at 23%. I needed to make a decision fast.
“Leo, do you 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 Catherine.”
“My name is Sarah. Sarah Miller. You do not know me, but my father… my father was Robert Miller. He gave me your number. I… I need a lot of help.”
There was a pause. Then:
“Sarah, Robert spoke to 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.
“Are you safe now? Can you drive?”
“Yes.”
“Then write down this address.”
Attorney Catherine’s office was in an old building in downtown Chicago, the kind of place you pass by without noticing. It did not have a flashy sign, just a small faded placard: K. Roberts, Legal Counsel. It was almost midnight when I parked in front. The street was deserted, only a few streetlights working. Leo had fallen asleep in the back seat during the drive, exhausted from crying so much. 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 little 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 Leo.
“Sarah?”
“Yes.”
“Come in quickly.”
I obeyed. She locked the door behind us with three different locks. The office smelled like old books and strong coffee. There were piles of files everywhere, old archives, a table full of papers.
“Put the boy on the sofa over there,” she indicated. “There is a blanket on the chair.”
I laid Leo down carefully. I covered him. He was still sleeping, his little face still marked by tears.
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