Last Tuesday, he had stopped me in the supermarket parking lot.

He had not asked if Julian was hurting me.

He had asked if I had found “the files” yet.

Now, he was at my door, and he was not in his patrol car.

He was carrying a heavy flashlight and his civilian jacket was unbuttoned.

The doorbell rang.

The chime echoed through the silent, cold house.

“Do not answer it,” Julian whispered through the speaker.

“If you move toward that door, I will spark the cooktop.”

The smell of gas grew stronger.

The gloved hand of Detective Harris reached up and tapped heavily on the glass pane of the door.

The glass rattled under Harris’s heavy knuckles.

The intercom on the kitchen wall buzzed with high-pitched static.

“Clara,” Julian’s voice came through the speaker, low and sharp. “Step away from the door.”

The smell of natural gas was sweet and thick in the back of my throat.

My fingers hovered over the brass lock of the side door.

If I stayed in the kitchen, the gas might suffocate me anyway.

I turned the latch.