“Exactly,” Julian said. “A tragic accident. A faulty propane line in a secluded suburban home.”

“A culinary blogger, working late, victim of a terrible leak,” Julian continued.

My stomach sickened.

The faint smell of mercaptan—the artificial cabbage odor added to propane—drifted under the door.

“We need to make sure the body is identifiable enough for the insurance,” Harris said.

“Don’t worry,” Julian said. “The dental records will match. That’s all the state needs.”

I gripped my phone tightly, my knuckles turning white.

I needed to call for help, but who would believe me if the local deputy was standing outside my door helping my husband kill me?

“The state police will investigate a gas explosion,” Harris said.

“Let them,” Julian said. “The report will say it was an accident. You’ll sign off on the initial scene assessment.”

“I can’t just sign off on a triple-fatality level blast without questions,” Harris muttered.

“There are no other fatalities, Harris. Just Clara.”

Footsteps paced back and forth on the tiles.

“We need to set the timeline,” Julian said. “What time did you arrive?”