Leo’s hand pulled me back. “Mom, no. You cannot go there.”
He was right. I knew it. But it was my house. My things. The photos from when Leo was born. The wedding dress stored in the closet. The drawings Leo made and I stuck on the refrigerator. The blanket my grandmother knitted before she died.
Everything burning.
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.
“Leo was 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… It 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, lawyer, 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?”
“I…” 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.”
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