“Gas leak,” I gasped. “My house. There’s gas everywhere. I can smell it. Don’t let anyone go in.”
“Ma’am, what’s your address?”
I gave it to her. Then I stood on the sidewalk, shaking, watching my house like it might explode at any second.
The fire trucks arrived within five minutes. Three of them—lights flashing, sirens wailing. Firefighters in heavy gear swarmed the property. One of them, a tall man with a captain’s badge, approached me.
“You’re the homeowner?”
“Yes.”
“Did you turn on any lights? Any appliances?”
“No. I smelled it the second I opened the door. I ran.”
He nodded. “Good. Stay here.”
They went inside with gas detectors, moving quickly. I stood on the lawn, arms wrapped around myself, watching the open front door like a black mouth.
Ten minutes later, the captain came back out. His face was grim.
“Mrs. Brennan,” he said, “all four burners on your gas stove were turned on. No flames, just open gas lines. Based on the concentration levels, they’ve been running for at least two hours.”
My stomach dropped. “Two hours?”
“Yes, ma’am. If you’d flipped a light switch when you walked in, the spark would have ignited the gas. Your entire house would have exploded.”
I couldn’t speak.
“You’re very lucky,” he said quietly.
An hour later, a detective arrived. She introduced herself as Lisa Morgan, Austin PD, mid-thirties, sharp eyes, notebook already out.
“Mrs. Brennan, I need to ask you some questions. Who else has access to your home?”
“Just me,” I said. My voice sounded hollow. “And my daughter-in-law Clare and my son Ryan.”
Her pen paused. “Ryan Brennan.”
“Yes. The same Ryan Brennan involved in the brake incident two weeks ago.”
I nodded.
Detective Morgan pulled out her phone. “Do you have a security system?”
“ADT,” I said. “It’s monitored.”
“I’m going to need access to the logs.”
Twenty minutes later, we were standing in my kitchen. The house had been aired out. The gas dissipated, but I could still smell it in my mind. Detective Morgan had her laptop open on the counter, scrolling through the ADT security records.
“Here,” she said, turning the screen toward me. “Someone disarmed the system and entered through the front door at 5:03 p.m. today, two hours before you got home.”
“Which access code was used?” I asked.
She squinted. “Code number three. Whose code is that?”
My mouth went dry.
“Ryan’s,” I said. “He’s had that code since he was a teenager. I never changed it.”
She wrote that down. Then she looked up at me.
“Do you have security cameras?”
“Ring, front door.”
“Let’s pull the footage.”
I opened the app on my phone, scrolling back to 5:00 p.m., and there he was—Ryan—walking up my front steps, punching in the code, opening the door, disappearing inside. Eight minutes later, he came back out, glanced at the camera, walked away.
Detective Morgan watched the footage twice. Then she made a phone call.
“Yeah, it’s Morgan. I need the FBI. We’ve got a second attempt.”
The next morning, two federal agents showed up at Sarah’s office where I’d been staying. One of them was a woman in her forties with short dark hair and a badge that read Special Agent Rodriguez, FBI. She sat across from me, hands folded on the table.
“Mrs. Brennan,” she said, “we’ve been investigating your son for securities fraud, but as of last night, this case has expanded. Two attempts on your life in two weeks. Video evidence. Clear motive. This is now a federal investigation.”
I stared at her. “What does that mean?”
“It means we have resources the local police don’t,” she said. “It means we can move faster. And it means—” she leaned forward, expression hard—“we’re going to get him.”
For the first time in weeks, I felt something other than fear.
I felt hope.
Three days after the gas leak, I sat in a conference room at the FBI field office in downtown Austin. The walls were beige. The coffee in my hands had gone cold. Agent Rodriguez sat across from me. Beside her was another agent, a man in his fifties with gray at his temples. He introduced himself as Agent Walsh.
“Mrs. Brennan,” Walsh said, “we need to talk about your son.”
I nodded. I didn’t trust my voice yet.
“Ryan’s backed into a corner,” Walsh continued. “He knows we’re investigating. He knows we have video footage, ADT logs, financial records. He’s moved $380,000 to the Caymans. And two days ago, he purchased a one-way ticket to Costa Rica. Departure next Friday.”
“He’s running,” I said quietly.
“He’s trying to,” Rodriguez said. “But we can stop him if we move fast.”
Walsh slid a folder across the table. “We want to set up a sting operation. We need your help.”
I didn’t open the folder. “What kind of help?”
“We need you to contact Ryan,” Walsh said. “Text him. Tell him you’re tired of fighting. That you want to settle. Make him think you’ve given up.”
My stomach turned. “You want me to lie to him?”
“We want you to bait him,” Rodriguez said gently. “Ryan thinks he’s winning. The restraining order got denied. He believes you’re isolated, scared, ready to surrender. We use that.”
“And then what?”
“Then he’ll agree to meet you,” Walsh said. “And when he does, you’ll be wearing a wire. We’ll have agents within fifty feet. GPS tracker on you. Panic button in your pocket. The second he says anything incriminating, we move in.”
I stared at him. “You want me to meet him alone?”
“You won’t be alone,” Rodriguez said. “Six federal agents within visual range. And Mrs. Brennan, we need a confession. We have circumstantial evidence, but his lawyers can argue he was there for innocent reasons. We need him to say it. To admit what he did.”
“What if he tries to hurt me again?”
“He won’t get the chance,” Walsh said. “You’ll have a panic button. Press it. We’re there in under ten seconds.”
I looked down at my hands. They were shaking.
“Mrs. Brennan,” Rodriguez said quietly, “your son has tried twice. If he gets on that plane to Costa Rica, we may never extradite him. This is our best shot.”
I closed my eyes, thought about Robert.
You’re stronger than you think, Patty.
I opened my eyes. “Okay.”
