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.

Not forced it.

Unlocked it.

My heart dropped.

They weren’t strangers.

Someone had given them access.

Then I smelled it.

Gasoline.

A faint scent carried through the night air.

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Moments later—smoke.