My husband locked me in our burning house to start a new life with his mistress… But he didn’t know who climbed through the window moments before the roof collapsed.
The screen of the phone was cracked, but the message was crystal clear. It glowed in the dark of the bathroom, illuminating the tear tracks on Sofia Martinez’s face.
“I’m tired of waiting, Daniel. You said you’d get rid of your problems. If she’s still there by Christmas, I’m gone.”
And Daniel’s reply, sent just three minutes ago while he sat in the living room watching football:
“Don’t worry, baby. The problem will be gone tonight. I promise. Just be ready to comfort a grieving widower.”
Sofia dropped the phone into the sink. Her hands were trembling so violently she could barely feel her fingertips. She was seven months pregnant. She was the “problem.”
She walked into the living room, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. Daniel looked up, his smile easy, charming—the same smile that had tricked her into marriage three years ago.
“Everything okay, babe? You look pale,” he said, muting the TV.
“I’m just… tired,” Sofia lied, her voice hollow. “I think I’m going to bed early.”
“You do that,” Daniel said, standing up and kissing her forehead. His lips felt like ice. “I made you some chamomile tea. It’s on the nightstand. Drink it up, it’ll help you sleep deep. I want to fix things between us, Sofia. Tonight is a fresh start.”
Sofia went to the bedroom. She didn’t drink the tea. She poured it into the potted plant by the window. She lay in bed, clutching her belly, listening to the silence of the house. She needed to leave, but where would she go at 11 PM in a snowstorm with no car keys? She resolved to wait until Daniel fell asleep and then sneak out.
But exhaustion, perhaps induced by the stress, pulled her under.
She woke to the smell of acrid smoke.
It wasn’t a drift of burnt toast. It was thick, black, choking smoke that filled the upper half of the room. The heat was already oppressive, sweat drenching her nightgown.
Sofia coughed, rolling out of bed. “Daniel!” she screamed.
She ran to the bedroom door and grabbed the handle. It wouldn’t turn.
She twisted it hard. Locked.
From the outside.
Panic, cold and sharp, pierced through the heat.
“Daniel! Open the door! It’s stuck!”
She banged on the wood with both fists.
“Daniel! Please!”
Through the crack beneath the door, she saw the orange flicker of flames eating the hallway carpet. Then, she heard footsteps. Slow. Deliberate.
“Daniel?” she wheezed, pressing her ear to the wood.
“Forgive me, Sofia,” his voice came from the other side. It wasn’t panicked. It was soft, almost sad, but with a terrifying finality. “It’s for the best. For everyone. The insurance will set us up… Madeline and me. And you… you won’t be in pain anymore.”
Sofia froze. The betrayal hit harder than the smoke.
“I’m pregnant!” she screamed, her voice shredding. “You’re killing your own son! You’re sick!”
“He’s not a child, Sofia,” Daniel replied, his voice drifting away as he walked down the hall. “He’s just another anchor. Goodbye.”
She heard the front door slam. Then the roar of the fire grew louder.
Sofia fell to her knees, coughing violently. The room was an oven. The curtains caught fire. She looked at the window—her only exit. But they were on the second floor, and below was a concrete patio.
“I can’t die,” she whispered, clutching her stomach. “Not today.”
She grabbed a heavy brass lamp from the bedside table and swung it with all her strength at the window.
SMASH.
Glass shattered outward. The rush of oxygen fed the fire behind her, and the bedroom door groaned, buckling under the heat. The flames roared into the room like a living beast.
Sofia climbed onto the sill, looking down. The drop was too high. If she jumped, she’d lose the baby. If she stayed, they both burned.
She turned back to the room, looking for something soft to throw down, but the heat blasted her backward. She fell onto the floor, smoke filling her lungs. Her vision blurred. Black spots danced in her eyes.
“I’m sorry, baby,” she thought, curling around her stomach. “I tried.”
The ceiling groaned. A beam crashed down, blocking the door.
And then, a shadow blocked the moonlight in the window.
A figure, bulky and dark, vaulted over the sill. It wasn’t Daniel.
“I got you!” a deep voice shouted through a mask.
A firefighter. But how? The sirens were still distant wails.
He didn’t wait. He scooped Sofia up in his arms, covering her face with his turnout coat. “Hold on!”
He didn’t go back out the window. He kicked through the burning drywall into the adjoining bathroom—which was tiled and cooler—and turned on the shower, soaking a towel and wrapping her head. He then kicked out the bathroom window, which led to the lower roof of the porch.
He slid them down the shingles and jumped to the snowbank below, taking the impact with his own body, shielding hers.
Darkness took her.
Two days later.
The sound of a heart monitor was the sweetest music Sofia had ever heard. Beep… beep… beep.
She opened her eyes. The hospital room was bright.
“My baby?” she croaked.
“He’s fine,” a nurse said, stepping into view. “Stress, smoke inhalation, but his heartbeat is strong. You’re a fighter, Mrs. Martinez.”
Sofia closed her eyes in relief. Then she remembered.
“My husband,” she whispered. “Where is he?”
“He’s in the waiting room,” a different voice said. A man in a suit stood by the door. “Detective Miller. He’s been putting on quite the show. Crying, tearing his hair out. He told us he tried to save you, but the door was jammed.”
Sofia looked at the detective. “The door wasn’t jammed. It was locked from the outside. He put a chair under the handle. I heard him.”
The detective’s eyes narrowed. “He said you were sleeping. That he went to get milk and came back to the fire.”
“Check his phone,” Sofia said, her voice gaining strength. “Texts to Madeline Cooper. Check the texts from 10:45 PM. He told her the ‘problem’ would be gone.”
The detective pulled out a notepad. “Madeline Cooper?”
“His mistress. He burned the house for the insurance money and to get rid of me.”
The detective smiled, a grim, satisfied expression. “We found accelerant in the hallway. We knew it was arson. We just needed a motive. Rest, Mrs. Martinez. We’re going to have a chat with your husband.”
The Memorial Service.
Daniel decided to hold a memorial service for Sofia three days after the fire, claiming her body hadn’t been recovered from the “rubble” yet but he needed closure. It was hasty, suspicious, but he played the part of the distraught husband perfectly.
He stood at the podium in the funeral home, dressed in black, wiping fake tears. Madeline sat in the front row, wearing large sunglasses, looking solemn.
“Sofia was my light,” Daniel choked out, gripping the lectern. “I don’t know how I’ll live without her. I tried… God knows I tried to get to her room…”
The double doors at the back of the chapel slammed open.
The room went silent.
Sofia stood there. She was in a wheelchair, pushed by the firefighter who saved her—a man named Jack, who lived three houses down and had seen the flames before anyone else.
Sofia wore a hospital gown and a bandage on her head, but her eyes were blazing hotter than the fire that destroyed her home.
Daniel froze. His face went gray. He looked like he was seeing a ghost.
“S-Sofia?” he stammered. The microphone picked up his trembling breath.
“You missed a spot,” Sofia said, her voice ringing clear through the silent room.
Madeline stood up, knocking over her chair. “She’s supposed to be dead!” she shrieked, instantly exposing herself.
The guests gasped.
Detective Miller stepped out from behind Sofia’s wheelchair. “Daniel Martinez, Madeline Cooper. You are both under arrest for conspiracy to commit murder, arson, and insurance fraud.”
“No!” Daniel yelled, backing away. “It was an accident! She’s crazy! She’s hormonal!”
“I have the texts, Daniel,” Sofia said calmly. “And I have the firefighter who saw you running away from the house while I was screaming.”
Jack, the firefighter, crossed his arms. “I saw you get in your car and drive to the end of the block to watch, buddy. You didn’t go for help.”
Police officers swarmed the altar. Daniel was handcuffed, crying, begging Sofia for forgiveness. Madeline was dragged out screaming that it was all Daniel’s idea.
Sofia watched them go. She placed a hand on her belly.
“It’s over,” she whispered to her son.
Six months later.
Sofia sat on the porch of her new, smaller house. It wasn’t a mansion, but it was safe. In her arms, baby Gabriel slept soundly.
The insurance money—from a policy Daniel had taken out on the house but failed to collect—had been tied up in court, but Sofia’s own savings and the restitution from the sale of Daniel’s assets gave her a fresh start.
She looked at the driveway where Jack’s truck just pulled in. He brought a casserole. He came by every Tuesday.
Sofia smiled. She had lost a house, but she had burned down the lies that trapped her. She looked down at Gabriel.
“We made it,” she said.
And for the first time in years, the future looked bright.
