"Your mom's a murderer."

Foss stared at his best friend. That was not the kind of news he'd expected after an Emergency. Get your ass over here text.

For a split second, he almost believed him—then he gave himself a mental slap. This was Nash. Half the time, he was full of crap.

A grin tugged at his lips. "For a second there, you had me, you jerk. Maybe you should ditch the steamy fanfics and take up acting."

Nash spun around in his desk chair, head tipped back against the rest. His feet traced lazy circles on the floor cluttered with clothes of every style and color. "I'm serious, man. I was just wrapping up my last delivery—midnight pizza rush, you know? Then I saw her shoving a body bag into her trunk."

"Was it a kid's? Corpses aren't exactly light, you know."

As soon as Foss had walked in, he could tell Nash had been smoking pot. Nothing new there—Nash swore it helped him "tap into the muse." But this time, it seemed like he was getting a little too creative with his real-life stories.

"Your mom's a badass. She could probably toss me over her shoulder too."

At barely five-seven and rail-thin, that wasn't exactly an achievement.

Nash blew his dark green hair out of his eyes with exaggerated drama, staring up at the ceiling. "I knew you wouldn't believe me. But dude, she saw me. I'm probably going to end up in that trunk by tomorrow."

"Not much different from this stuffy little cave," Foss said as he got up to crack a window. The rain outside was coming down in sheets.

"Not all of us have sweet moms who make sandwiches and tidy up our beds every morning."

Foss glanced at him. Nash's moods were like the weather—always changing—but there was a heaviness to him tonight. Foss knew it was tough for his friend, especially since his mom had remarried and had another kid. Living alone in this tiny apartment, when he hated being by himself, wasn't exactly ideal. Instead of bringing that up, Foss shrugged. "Tell you what, if you're still convinced tomorrow that my mom's a killer, I'll give you the benefit of the doubt."

"You'll probably be digging my grave by then." Nash twirled his chair around again. "So, was she home when you got here?"

"No. She had work."

Nash looked over at him, his gaze suddenly sharp. "No alibi, then."

"Yes, she does. Her job."

"Where, exactly?"

"How should I know? She's a lighting technician—she's always working odd hours."

"Perfect cover for a serial killer."

Foss shook his head, standing up from the edge of the bed. "Seriously, man. I'm starting to think you're having some kind of psychotic episode. You need to cut back on that stuff."

"Your mom needs to find a normal hobby."

Foss's grin faded. He could take a joke, but this was getting old. And it was clear Nash wasn't just messing around; he actually believed this absurd story. Foss took a deep breath and tried to push down his irritation. "We'll talk about this tomorrow. When you're sober."

He headed toward the door, but before he got two steps, Nash leapt up and grabbed his arm. His green and black-painted nails dug into Foss's skin. His eyes were wide with genuine fear, so intense it caught Foss off guard. "Stay. Please. If you're here, she won't do anything."

Foss stifled a sigh. It didn't feel right leaving Nash like this, all scared out of his mind. "Fine. But I need some sleep. I've got an early class."

Nash wrapped him up in a tight hug. "Thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you."

"Yeah, yeah, it's fine." Foss pulled his phone from his pocket and shot a text to his mom, letting her know he was staying over.

She'd probably left her phone somewhere as usual, but if she noticed he wasn't home, she'd likely check her messages. He kicked off his shoes and gave the narrow bed a skeptical look. He didn't even want to guess when the sheets had last been washed.

He shuffled over to the closet and opened it. Thankfully, there was still a spare blanket inside.

The old three-seater on the other side of the room had a busted spring in the middle and was just barely big enough if he curled up in a ball. It'd have to do.

The things you do for your best friend.

But he knew Nash would do the same for him. One rough night on a lumpy couch was a small sacrifice—though he'd probably be regretting it in an hour.