“As long as you’re paying.”
“Good. I need everything. Photos. Recordings. Locations. Times. Everything.”
“You got it.”
I left his office with the folder tucked under my arm and a hollow ache in my chest. Jake didn’t love anyone. He loved money. Power. Control. And Maya—my little sister, the girl I used to read bedtime stories to, the one who used to braid my hair—was just another pawn in his game.
Part of me wanted to warn her.
Part of me wanted to tell her the truth. That Jake had had a vasectomy. That there would never be a baby. That the future she imagined with him was a lie.
But another part of me—the part that remembered her kissing my husband, laughing about Maya’s Table, texting him about having his child—thought she deserved to find out the hard way.
Jake lied to both of us.
But only one of us knew the truth now.
And I was going to use that.
Seven and a half months passed.
Seven and a half months since I found the video of Jake hiring Rick Donovan to kill me. Seven months since I sat in Detective Sarah Morgan’s office and showed her the footage of my husband planning to blow up Rosa’s Kitchen with me inside. Seven months of planning, waiting, gathering evidence, and building the kind of case no jury could ignore.
After I gave Sarah the video back in March, we made a plan.
A long one.
Sarah wanted to arrest Jake immediately, but I convinced her to wait. If we arrested him too soon, his lawyer would argue he had never meant to go through with it. That it was just talk. But if we waited—if we let him believe his plan was still working, if we caught him at the scene expecting me to die—then we would have him cold. Conspiracy. Attempted murder. Fraud. No wiggle room.
So we waited.
Sarah opened an official investigation. She got warrants. She tracked Rick Donovan. She interviewed him quietly. Rick confessed everything. Jake paid him five thousand dollars cash to loosen the gas valve at Rosa’s Kitchen. Rick was supposed to do it three days before October 28, then disappear. Jake would make sure I was alone in the kitchen that night. The gas would leak. I would light the stove. Boom. Tragic accident. Grieving widower inherits restaurant. Sells it. Walks away clean.
Except I knew.
And three days before October 28, it was time to make sure his plan failed.
It was Friday afternoon, October 25, just after two, and I stood in the kitchen of Rosa’s Kitchen with my phone pressed to my ear.
“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.
