The firefighters arrived fast, red and blue lights strobing through the trees, sirens slicing the night open. Neighbors spilled onto porches in robes and slippers, hands covering mouths, phones held up like shields. Someone shouted my name once, like calling it loudly could pull me out of the flames.
I stayed hidden.
My body wouldn’t move. It was like my muscles had turned to stone, as if movement itself might make the scene real.
Kenzo pressed against my side, small and trembling, his face buried in my jacket. He was crying without noise, the way children do when they’re trying to be brave for an adult who looks like she’s about to fall apart.
I stared at the house, our house, and watched it change shape. The flames made it look alive, like a creature with a mouth that kept widening. The curtains went first, then the living room windows exploded outward with a sharp pop, heat rippling across the street even from where we were. The upstairs glowed and then caught, the fire climbing as if it knew exactly where to go.
Kenzo’s room was on that side.
My knees buckled. I sank down hard onto the curb, the concrete cold through my clothes. I heard myself breathing, fast and shallow, like I’d just run. The smell of smoke clung to the back of my throat.
My phone still sat open in my palm, Quasi’s text shining bright and cheerful.
Just landed. Hope you and Kenzo are sleeping well. Love you guys.
A poison lullaby.
He was building the alibi while the house burned. He was on the other end of the country making sure his timeline was clean, while men with a key walked through our front door.
My stomach rolled. I turned my head and vomited into the gutter, sharp and sour, the kind of sickness that comes from your body realizing the world is no longer safe.
Kenzo’s hands patted my back, uncertain. He was trying to comfort me like I was the child.
“I’m sorry, Mama,” he whispered. “I’m sorry.”
I wiped my mouth on my sleeve and pulled him into me, holding him tight enough to feel his heartbeat.
“No,” I said hoarsely. “No, baby. You saved us.”
He didn’t answer. He just clung to me, shaking.
Across the street, the fire chief barked orders. Hoses unfurled with a slap against pavement. Water hit the flames with a violent hiss, steam rising in thick waves. The night was full of noise, but the world inside me had gone eerily quiet.
I looked down at Kenzo’s face, wet with tears and shining under the faint streetlight.
“What are we going to do now, Mama?” he asked, voice barely above a breath.
I had no answer.
Because the question wasn’t just where we would sleep. It was who we could trust. Where we could go that Quasi couldn’t reach. How you survive the moment you realize the person you married is capable of erasing you with a smile on his face.
If I called the police right now, what would I say?
My husband tried to kill me.
He’s in Chicago.
He has an alibi.
I watched our house burn.
And I have a six-year-old as my witness.
In a city that loved Quasi, respected Quasi, admired Quasi, where he shook hands at charity events and posted perfect family photos that made older women comment things like, “Beautiful Black family,” and “God is good.”
They would look at me like I’d lost my mind.
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