Naomi gripped the steering wheel, her eyes drifting once again to Nash's apartment. Half the streetlights were out, leaving the building draped in shadows. No cameras that she could see, and the lock was probably nothing special.

You've got to do something.

She rubbed her tired, stinging eyes. This job was really getting to her. She rarely worked this close to home. Nash's shocked face still lingered in her mind, from across the street in his brightly colored work clothes.

She'd been way too careless, hadn't done nearly enough planning. Damn it—she should've waited until the dead of night, or maybe cut the body up and stashed it in a duffel bag. But it had been a secluded spot, only neighbors on one side...

With a sigh, she leaned her head back against the seat. Should she just let it go? Nash had an overactive imagination. It wouldn't be the first time he'd come up with some wild story. Would her son even believe him?

Probably not, at least at first. But Nash wouldn't just drop it, and the thought would stick in Foss's mind. He might dismiss it for now, but if anything else suspicious happened... She cursed under her breath.

The fear that Foss might catch a glimpse of all the secrets she kept from him had haunted her for years. Every birthday seemed to bring him closer to the inevitable truth. And it was still better to come clean herself than have him stumble upon her dragging around dismembered limbs someday.

She chewed on her lip. But how on earth do you tell your son you're a killer? Foss wasn't exactly a stickler for rules—thankfully, he wasn't studying to be a cop or a judge—but come on, no one would take that kind of news well. Once one demon came crawling out of her past, the rest would follow, until her history ensnared him too.

No. She wasn't going to tell him. Not now.

He needed to at least be living on his own first. Then he'd have space to think things over without her hovering. He was twenty—it wouldn't be that much longer.

Her fingers found the door handle, and she stepped out, ignoring the puddle that soaked her boot. Her black hiking shoes were already caked in mud from the swampy ground near the cabin.

Bracing herself against the rain, she walked to the entrance, scanning for cameras. In the dim moonlight, she didn't spot any. There was a light above the door, but it was out, glass shards crunching under her feet as she came to a stop. She reached into her pocket for her lockpick set. With the building being this old and rundown, she expected a standard cylinder lock that had seen better days. After a bit of fiddling, the lock clicked open, and she slipped inside.

A flickering fluorescent light greeted her. There was no elevator, so she started up the piss-and-mildew-scented stairs. She remembered last year, lugging a couch up with the two boys.

Nash lived on the third floor. She stepped out onto the gallery, pulling her coat tighter as the wind hurled raindrops at her. All the lights were off. Good. At this hour, there was probably only one type of female visitor people would expect to see, and she didn't want to fuel any gossip for Nash's sake. She was nearly twice his age, after all.

She hesitated in front of the third door. Would he answer if she knocked? Maybe he was scared of her. She wanted him to be scared—scared enough to keep his mouth shut—but she didn't need him coming at her with a butcher knife, either. It was dramatic enough already.

What would freak him out more, a break-in or her showing up? Maybe he hadn't even realized it was her. Or—

Naomi rang the doorbell. Enough waffling; hadn't she learned long ago to act decisively?

No chime. Was it broken, or could she just not hear it from here? The space inside wasn't that big. She decided to count to ten and then use the lockpick if needed.

She was at eight when she heard movement. A curtain twitched aside to her left. A pale face, squinting in the darkness, peered out to catch a glimpse of the visitor. Naomi gave a dry wave, and he instantly vanished.

A faint smile tugged at her lips. Her thumb brushed the grip of the Smith & Wesson tucked into her waistband. It was tempting to rattle him a little. It would be so much easier to pass this off as a joke. Maybe he'd even buy it if she claimed she was just messing with him. Halloween was just a few days away, after all. She could say she was getting him in the spirit for his favorite holiday.

Voices came from inside.

Naomi frowned. Did he have company? A boy or girlfriend? She hadn't heard anything about it from Foss, but then again, his best friend seemed to change partners more often than socks.

The door swung open, and Naomi instinctively moved her hand away from the gun. One lamp was on, casting a dim light across the room. Even in the faint glow, she recognized her son immediately.

"Mom?"

"Foss?" she blurted. "What are you doing here?"

"Keeping Nash company while he freaks out over murderous mothers." He rubbed his face and yawned. "Seriously, though. What are you doing here? Didn't I text you that I was staying over?"

"Yeah..." The word died on her lips. Murderous mothers. The phrase echoed in her mind. It was clear the boy had called his friend—and Foss had dismissed it as nonsense. For now, at least.

And now here she was. The murderous mother.

How was she supposed to explain that?

"I...," she started, but her mind was a tangled mess. Foss wasn't stupid; if she fed him some obvious lie, he'd see right through it. "I have to leave for a few days. A big event in Colorado. Last-minute gig I managed to land."

They needed the money. Foss knew that.

But her son's eyes narrowed. "Come on, Mom. A minute ago you were surprised to see me here."

Damn it. Naomi mentally cursed herself. Her thoughts were chaos, and she couldn't seem to clear her head. Murderous mothers buzzed around her brain like a fly she couldn't swat away.

The way Foss stared at her, unyielding, reminded her so much of his father... It sent a pang through her chest. She found herself thinking more about him lately, now that Foss was getting older. She'd last seen him when he was sixteen, though he'd always seemed older than his years.

"It's true," Foss said, his voice tightening. "Nash really did see you dumping a body bag in a trunk."

Naomi's shoulders slumped as Foss's expression hardened.

"So, what?" he continued. "You're here to kill him?"

"Of course not!" she snapped. Her eyes darted down the gallery. They were talking about a murder, for God's sake. She pushed her son back inside, shutting the door behind them, her mind racing for the right words. Okay, she'd just confessed to the killing. Now what? Should she pretend it was a one-time thing? Spin a story that hid the ugly truth?

She glanced at Nash, who stood a few steps away, pressed against the wall like he hoped the shadows might swallow him up. Her mouth quirked when she noticed the butcher knife in his hand.

His instincts weren't entirely off.

She turned her focus back to Foss. "Nash is your best friend. He's like a son to me. I would never hurt him."

There was a bitter edge to her words. Family ties weren't exactly a guarantee against wanting to ruin someone's life. But she loved her son, and she knew what it was like to lose someone who meant everything to you. She'd rather face the electric chair than put him through that.

Still, she would've preferred if his best friend had just kept his mouth shut, so they could all pretend nothing had happened.

"I came to convince him to stay quiet. Rattle him a little." She shot Nash a sharp look. "But it seems I'm already too late."

Foss took a deep breath, seeming to search for the right words. He rubbed a hand over his face, his long black hair brushing the wall as he shook his head. "Damn it, Mom. I thought... I thought you'd have some reasonable explanation for why it looked like you were stuffing a body bag in a trunk. But you actually..." He trailed off, his eyes wide. "Who was it?"

"Nobody you'd know." Or I knew. She was giving up pieces of the truth, but there were still things she'd never let her son find out. There was a time when lying to his face would've felt repulsive. Now, she was quite skilled at it. A sprinkle of truth, mixed with a more palatable lie.

She walked further into Nash's cluttered studio apartment, where he still stood in his boxers, gripping the knife like the few minutes of eye contact had turned him to stone.

"I'm not here to kill you, Nash. Put that thing down before you drop it on your foot."

His gaze flicked from the knife to her, then over to Foss. Whatever look Foss gave him convinced him to lower the knife, though he didn't let go.

Naomi dropped onto the couch, right on top of the blanket Foss had been sleeping under.

"Rough night," she said. "Got any coffee, Nash?"

"Coffee?" His voice cracked. "Yeah, sure. I always brew a pot for murderers at midnight. Because, you know, that's exactly what I need after this kind of revelation." He grumbled his way over to the tiny kitchen area.

Naomi managed a faint smile. Her muscles still ached, and she tried to ease the tension in her body. She had to spin this story just right.

Foss wasn't about to wait for coffee. He stood a few feet from the couch, arms crossed, giving her a look that made him the spitting image of his father. "So? Who was it? Is this... something you've done before?"

She pressed her lips together and glanced down, letting herself appear vulnerable, even if it felt like a low blow. But some truths had to be bent.

She laced her fingers tightly and tucked them between her knees. "He was a rapist," she said quietly. "There are... too many of those bastards who slip through the cracks." She took a deep breath, wiping a hand across her eyes. "And I know what it does to someone. How it destroys you. The idea that he'd just keep hurting people..."

Foss sank down beside her, pulling her into a hug. "Shit, Mom. You're telling me you... that you're...?"

Her stomach twisted with guilt, but she had to. There was too much on the line.

She wrapped her arms around him and held on tight, closing her eyes. She didn't want to lose him too. He was worth every lie.