Right after my husband left for his business trip, my six-year-old gripped my hand and quietly said, “Mom… we can’t go back home. This morning I heard Dad on the phone, talking about something that involves us and it didn’t sound right.” So we didn’t go back.

The city loved Dominic. He was the man who shook hands at charity events and posted perfect photos.

People would look at me like I had lost my mind. They would tell me that trauma makes people confused and suggest that I rest.

Then they would call Dominic to come pick me up. The thought made my blood turn to ice.

I forced myself to breathe slowly to keep from hyperventilating. I needed help from outside of his social circle.

That was when my father’s voice returned to me. He had been a cynical man who saw things I did not want to see.

Two years ago, he had been in a hospital room in downtown Chicago. He had gripped my hand with a strange urgency.

“Ayira, I do not trust that husband of yours,” he had said.

I had laughed at him back then. “Dad, stop it, Dominic takes great care of us,” I had replied.

My father had stared at me for a long time. “If you ever need real help, call this person,” he said.

He had pressed a business card into my palm. It said Sarah Jenkins, Attorney at Law.

I had tucked the card into my wallet and tried to forget the conversation. It felt like a betrayal to even keep it.

Now my wallet was likely burning in the remains of my bedroom. But the number was saved in a hidden note on my phone.

My hands shook as I pulled up the contact and tapped the screen. One ring turned into two.

On the third ring, a woman with a firm voice answered. “Attorney Jenkins,” she said.

“Ms. Jenkins, my name is Ayira. My father was Robert Miller,” I blurted out.

“I need help. I think my husband just tried to kill me and my son,” I said.

There was a long silence on the other end. Then she spoke softer. “Robert’s daughter,” she noted.

Hearing my father’s name felt like a hand reaching out to save me. “Where are you right now?” she asked.

I looked around at the chaos and realized I did not even know the name of the side street. “My house is burning in Northfield,” I said.

“Can you drive?” she asked.

“Yes,” I replied.

“Then listen carefully to me. Get in your car right now and do not talk to anyone,” she commanded.

“Drive to this address in the old district,” she said as she gave me the coordinates.

“If anyone calls you, do not pick up the phone,” she added.

I hung up and sat for a second. The phone felt like it weighed a hundred pounds.

“We are leaving,” I told Toby. “We are going somewhere safe.”