I nodded and smiled because that’s what I’d learned to do. Because smiling kept things smooth.
“Of course,” I said. “We’ll be fine.”
Kenzo’s grip tightened around my hand.
Quasi crouched in front of him, placing both hands on Kenzo’s shoulders, angling his face just right, like he knew how this moment should look.
“You take care of Mama for me, all right?” he said warmly.
Kenzo didn’t answer. He just nodded, eyes locked on his father’s face with an intensity that made my stomach twist.
It was the kind of look you give when you’re afraid you won’t see someone again.
Quasi kissed Kenzo’s forehead, then my cheek.
“Love you both.”
Then he turned and walked toward the TSA line without looking back, blending into the river of travelers heading toward metal detectors and gates.
I watched until I couldn’t see him anymore.
Only then did I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.
“Okay, baby,” I said softly. “Let’s go home.”
We started walking toward the parking deck, our footsteps echoing against the polished floor. Stores were closing, metal grates half-pulled down. The flight boards flickered overhead with last-call announcements. People jogged past us clutching Chick-fil-A bags and backpacks.
Kenzo lagged behind, dragging his feet.
“You okay, sweetie?” I asked. “You’ve been really quiet.”
He didn’t answer.
We were almost at the glass doors when he stopped so suddenly I nearly stumbled.
“Mama.”
I turned, annoyed for half a second, then instantly alarmed by the sound of his voice.
“What is it?”
He looked up at me, and the fear in his eyes punched the air out of my chest.
“Mama,” he whispered, tugging my hand hard, “we can’t go back home.”
I crouched in front of him, trying to keep my voice calm. “What do you mean? Of course we’re going home. It’s late.”
He shook his head violently, tears already pooling. “No. Please. We can’t. Something bad is going to happen.”
A few people glanced our way. I gently pulled him closer.
“Kenzo, baby, listen to me. You’re safe. Daddy’s just on a trip. Nothing bad is going to happen.”
“Mama, please,” he said, his voice breaking. “This time you have to believe me.”
This time.
The words stung because they were deserved.
A few weeks earlier, he’d told me about a dark car parked in front of our Buckhead house late at night. I’d brushed it off. Another time, he mentioned hearing his dad talking in his office about “fixing things for good.” I’d told him grown-up conversations weren’t for kids.
Now he was shaking in front of me, begging.
I took a breath. “Okay,” I said quietly. “Tell me what you heard.”
He leaned close, lips brushing my ear.
“This morning,” he whispered, “I woke up early to get water. Daddy was in his office on the phone. He said tonight something bad was going to happen while we were sleeping. He said he needed to be far away. That we wouldn’t be in his way anymore.”
The world tilted.
I pulled back and searched his face. “Are you sure, baby?”
He nodded, frantic. “He said people were going to take care of it. His voice was scary, Mama. Not like Daddy.”
My first instinct was denial. To explain it away. To tell myself this was a misunderstanding.
But memories surfaced uninvited.
Quasi insisting everything be in his name.
Quasi increasing his life insurance policy.
Late-night calls behind locked doors.
That phrase I’d overheard once, half asleep: It has to look accidental.
I stood slowly.
“Okay,” I said. “I believe you.”
Relief flooded Kenzo’s face so fast it hurt to see.
We walked to the car in silence. I buckled him in, my hands shaking, then drove—past our usual route, circling wide, approaching our street from the back.
I parked on a side road, engine off, headlights dark.
Our house sat there like always. Porch light on. Curtains drawn. Quiet.
We waited.
Minutes passed.
Then a dark van turned onto our street.
It moved too slowly. Too deliberately.
It stopped in front of our house.
Two men stepped out.
They weren’t delivery drivers. They weren’t neighbors.
