“Are you sure the gas line is fully open?” Julian asked.

“I loosened the valve behind the stove,” Harris said, leaning against the island.

“It’s filling the crawlspace and the kitchen. In another ten minutes, the concentration will be high enough.”

“And the spark?” Julian asked.

“The refrigerator compressor,” Harris said.

“I bypassed the internal fuse. When it cycles on, it will throw a spark right into the lower vent.”

“It has to look like a tragic accident,” Julian muttered, crossing his arms.

“The insurance company will investigate every inch of this place.”

“They won’t find anything but charred timber,” Harris said.

“A propane leak in a secluded suburban home during a severe lightning storm. It happens.”

“She was baking,” Julian said, a cruel, mocking smile touching his lips.

“The famous culinary blogger, killed by her own high-tech oven. The media will love the irony.”

“I don’t care about the media,” Harris spat.

“I care about my money. You promised me forty percent of the settlement.”

“You’ll get your share, Harris,” Julian said, his voice turning cold.

“But only if she’s inside when it goes off.”