Then I took Noah’s hand and we went down the elevator to the parking lot. He was silent, which was never a good sign. Usually, he would ask a hundred questions: why do airplanes tilt, do clouds have shadows, can sharks live in a lake… But that morning, he was clutching the straps of his little dinosaur backpack and staring at the ground.
“Mom…” he murmured when we reached my car.
“What, darling?”
“We can’t go home.”
I laughed nervously, thinking about the traffic. But his face didn’t change.
“This morning, I heard Dad planning something bad for us.”
My keys fell.
Noah had overheard Daniel in his office before dawn: “Once they’re asleep tonight, it’ll be done before anyone knows.” Then: “I’ll already be on the plane, no one will be able to link me to this… and no mistake with the gas this time.”
Everything inside me shifted.
I locked the car, turned off my phone’s location sharing, and drove straight away from the airport, immediately calling 911. A patrol car met us 12 kilometers away. The detectives quickly confirmed my worst fears: the kitchen window was unlocked, the gas meter tampered with, the carbon monoxide detectors had their batteries drained, and the heater was set to restrict airflow. It had all been premeditated.
