“Oregon Natural Gas customer service. This is Brenda speaking. How can I help you today?”
“Hi,” I said, keeping my voice level. “I’m calling from Rosa’s Kitchen on Southeast Hawthorne Boulevard. I think we might have a gas leak. I’ve been smelling gas near the stove for the last two days.”
“Okay, ma’am. We take that very seriously. I’m going to send a technician out right away. Can you confirm the address?”
“428 Southeast Hawthorne Boulevard, Portland.”
“Perfect. Someone will be there within the hour. In the meantime, please don’t use any open flames, and if the smell gets stronger, evacuate immediately.”
“Thank you.”
Fifty minutes later, a white van with the Oregon Natural Gas logo pulled up outside. A man in a blue jumpsuit and hard hat stepped out carrying a toolbox and a handheld gas detector.
I met him at the door.
“Hi. I’m the one who called. Zoe Martinez. I’m the owner.”
“Eddie Parker,” he said, shaking my hand. “Let’s take a look.”
I led him into the kitchen. He scanned around the stove, the pipes, the valves, the joints. After a minute he frowned.
“Ma’am, you were right to call. This valve here…”
He pointed to a brass fitting near the main gas line behind the stove.
“It’s been loosened. Not enough to cause an immediate leak, but if you’d turned the stove on full for a while, it would’ve started leaking fast. Could have caused an explosion.”
My stomach twisted so hard it hurt, but I kept my face neutral.
“Can you fix it?”
“Yeah, absolutely. I’ll tighten it right now and check the whole system.”
He worked for twenty minutes, tightening fittings, checking pressure, sweeping the detector over every inch of pipe. Finally he stood.
“You’re good. Everything’s tight. No leaks. But I’ve got to ask—do you know how that valve got loosened? That doesn’t just happen.”
I swallowed.
“I don’t know. Maybe somebody bumped it.”
He gave me a skeptical look but didn’t push.
“All right. Well, it’s fixed now. I’ll file a report with the company.”
“Actually…”
I pulled five hundred-dollar bills from my purse.
“Can you do me a favor? My husband gets really anxious about things like this. If he finds out I called the gas company, he’ll think I’m overreacting and it’ll just turn into a huge fight. Could you maybe not file the report? Just between us. Consider this a tip for coming out so fast.”
Eddie looked at the money. Then at me.
“Ma’am, I’m supposed to file every service call.”
“I know. But please. It’s fixed now. Everything’s safe. I just don’t want the drama at home.”
He hesitated. Then he took the money and slipped it into his pocket.
“All right. But if you smell gas again, you call immediately.”
“I will. Thank you.”
After he left, I locked the door behind him and let out a long breath.
Step one: done.
The valve was fixed.
But Jake didn’t know that.
Rick didn’t know that.
They thought the bomb was still armed.
But I needed more control than that. I needed to be able to shut off the gas myself from anywhere, instantly, if anything went wrong. So I made another call.
“Walsh Gas Consulting. This is David.”
“Hi, David. My name is Zoe Martinez. I need someone to install a remote shutoff valve on a commercial gas line today, if possible. Money’s not an issue.”
“Today’s tight,” he said, “but I can squeeze you in around six. What’s the address?”
At exactly six, David Walsh pulled up in an unmarked truck. He was in his fifties, gray-haired, wearing jeans and a flannel shirt. Sarah had recommended him—a retired gas engineer, discreet and professional. I let him in through the back door.
“Show me the line,” he said.
I took him to the kitchen. He examined the main shutoff valve, the connections, the pipe runs.
“You want a remote valve installed here?”
“Yes. Something I can control from my phone so I can shut off the gas from anywhere.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“You in some kind of trouble?”
“Let’s just say I need to be able to control my own building.”
He nodded once.
“Fair enough. I can install a smart valve with a cellular connection. You’ll be able to shut it off from an app. Takes about two hours. Twelve hundred dollars.”
“Done.”
David worked quietly and efficiently. He installed a compact motorized shutoff behind the stove, connected it to a small control box on the wall, and synced it to an app on my phone.
“Here,” he said, handing me my phone after the setup finished. “Download this. Gas Safe Pro. I’ve already linked your valve.”
On the screen was a red button labeled Emergency Shutoff.
“If you press that, the valve closes instantly. No gas gets through. Stove won’t light. Oven won’t work. Everything stops.”
“And if I want to turn it back on?”
“Green button. But I’d recommend checking it manually after, just for safety.”
“Perfect.”
I paid him $1,200 in cash from the trust fund. He pocketed it, nodded, and left without another question. I stood alone in the kitchen, staring at the app in my hand.
One button.
That was all it took.
I tested it. Pressed red. Heard the valve click shut. Pressed green. Heard it reopen. I did it three more times just to be sure.
Then I bought a handheld gas detector online with two-day shipping and tucked my phone back into my pocket.
The kitchen was safe. The line was under my control. Jake had no idea.
I walked to the front window and looked out at Hawthorne Boulevard. The sun was setting, stretching long orange shadows across the pavement.
In three days, Jake would walk through those doors expecting me to die.
Expecting the restaurant to explode.
Expecting to inherit everything and walk away clean.
But he was wrong.
October 28 would not be the day I died.
It would be the day Jake Carson got caught.
And I would be the one holding the match.
Sunday evening, October 27. Seven o’clock. I sat alone in the back office of Rosa’s Kitchen with my phone in my hand and a knot in my stomach.
Tomorrow was October 28.
Tomorrow was the day Jake planned to kill me.
Tomorrow was the day everything ended.
The restaurant was closed on Sundays, so the dining room was dark and still. I could hear the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen and the faint ticking of the wall clock Abuela had hung there thirty years earlier. Outside, rain hammered the windows. I opened the TextNow app on my phone—the one I downloaded the day before, the one that gave me a burner number that could not be traced back to me. I had used it before to text Sarah without leaving anything on our shared records.
That night, I was using it for something else.
I was using it to bait my sister.
I stared at the blank message screen with my thumb hovering over the keyboard. Part of me—some small, sentimental, broken part—wanted to call Maya instead. To warn her. To tell her Jake was using her. Lying to her. Planning to discard her the second he didn’t need her anymore. To tell her I knew about the vasectomy, the fake fertility documents, the messages where Jake laughed about keeping both of us hoping.
But I couldn’t.
Maya had made her choice.
She chose Jake.
She chose to sleep with my husband. She chose to help him steal Rosa’s Kitchen. And tomorrow night she was going to walk straight into the consequences.
I took a breath and started typing. The message had to sound exactly like Jake. Not too formal. Not too careful. Just the right mix of confidence and urgency. I had been reading his texts for months. I knew exactly how he talked.
Babe, Zoe’s throwing a last-minute anniversary party tomorrow night, October 28, 8:00 p.m. at Rosa’s to win me back. She invited my mom and a bunch of our friends to guilt-trip me into staying. It’s actually perfect. With all those people there, the accident will look even more real and no one will suspect a thing. Just show up like a normal guest. Be polite to Zoe. And when it happens after everyone leaves around 10:00, we’ll both have alibis because we were in the middle of a crowd. Don’t call me back. Zoe’s been watching me like a hawk. Trust me, baby. After tomorrow night, we’re free. I love you.
I read it four times. Making sure it sounded like him. Making sure the logic held. Making sure Maya would believe it.
Then I hit send.
Delivered.
I set the phone on the desk and stared at it, my pulse hammering in my throat. What if she didn’t believe it? What if she called Jake? What if she didn’t show up?
At 7:34 p.m., my phone buzzed.
I grabbed it so fast I almost dropped it.
Okay, babe. I’ll be there. After tomorrow, we’ll have everything. Right?
I stared at the message and felt something crack quietly inside me.
After tomorrow, we’ll have everything.
She believed it.
She truly believed Jake loved her. That he would leave me for her. That they were going to open Maya’s Table together and live happily ever after with the money from selling Rosa’s Kitchen. She had no idea Jake had a vasectomy five years earlier. No idea he had been lying to her about a baby. No idea that the second he got what he wanted, he would disappear and leave her with nothing.
Or worse. Blame everything on her.
I typed back, still pretending to be Jake.
We’ll have everything, baby. I promise. See you tomorrow. Wear something nice. And remember—act surprised when you walk in.
Her reply came instantly.