By the time the second movie ended, Foss had been staring at the ceiling for at least fifteen minutes, mulling over what he'd seen. So deep in thought, he didn't even notice the pillow flying at him until it landed squarely on his face. He bolted upright, startled, and glanced around.

Nash wasn't grinning—he was sober today—and was watching him intently. "Alright, out with it. What's going on?"

Foss sighed. "My mom. She threw a wine glass at the wall, and I swear I saw tears in her eyes. But when I asked her about it, she just brushed me off with vague answers."

Nash chewed on his lip, thinking. "It's usually not a good sign when murderers start getting stressed."

Foss shot him a sharp look. "Don't call her that."

Sure, technically she was, but he preferred to think of her as more of a vigilante. Someone who looked out for the people. Like those superheroes who took it upon themselves to stand up for the weak whenever the system fell short.

"You don't want me to call her Miss Cockslayer either. You're really limiting my options here."

"It's still the dumbest nickname ever."

Nash shrugged. "The few fans I have seemed to like it."

Just like he ignored the fact that his mom was a cold-blooded killer, Foss tried to overlook how his best friend saw her as a muse and took a little too much creative inspiration from her life.

"Anyway, we need to figure out what kind of message she got. Maybe someone caught her doing bloody stuff and sent her some footage as blackmail." Nash perked up. "Holy shit, that's actually a solid idea." He snatched up his phone to jot it down in his notes.

Nash's words kept circling in his mind. It was a plausible explanation. Something that would definitely make his mom panic. Though, if that were the case, he'd have expected something bigger—like a laptop or a table—to be thrown at the wall. And those tears... "Maybe I can find something on her laptop." If it was incriminating, she'd probably deleted it, but that didn't mean he wouldn't be able to dig up something.

He got up and headed out of his room. The hallway was completely dark. She slept just one door down, and when he noticed Nash trailing behind him, he motioned for him to stay quiet.

Quietly, he pressed down the door handle and slipped into his mom's study. He switched on the light, settled into the desk chair, and then opened the laptop. Not too long ago, his laptop had died, and he'd been using his mom's for schoolwork for a while, so he knew her login code.

First, he opened Google Chrome. Her last open tabs were still there, including her email inbox. It required logging in, though. Would she use the same password as the laptop? The email address was unfamiliar, a random jumble of letters—tinb. Did she use it for her cover designs? Her freelance lighting work? Or maybe for her... darker hobby? She had to get her tips from somewhere. Maybe someone was feeding them to her.

After a moment's hesitation, he tried the laptop password. No luck. Her birth date didn't work, and neither did his.

"Damn," he muttered. Maybe Vicky could crack it, but he figured Nash would need a little more motivation than a broken wine glass to get in touch with his ex.

"Try the search history?" Nash suggested, leaning over his shoulder.

Foss followed his lead. It was immediately clear she'd been looking up people. It started with "Tom Miller." Then "Tom Miller Bakersfield" and  "Tom Miller Bakersfield High School." She'd followed that up with a search for a woman named Dana Miller, along with terms like "kidnapping," "Morburn," "Rage," and "Black Dahlia MC."

"Hey. My grandma lives in Morburn. There was a woman kidnapped there five years ago. She showed up again about six months back. Think it could be connected? My grandma wouldn't shut up about it, thought it was awful. The girl was part of some outlaw biker club or something."

Foss didn't know much about motor clubs, other than that they were a bunch of rough types who thought highly of themselves. What would his mom have to do with them? Biting his nail, he browsed through the pages. Most of it was about the woman, Dana. After reading a bit more, he found out she had a brother named Tom, better known as Rage.

There were no pictures of the guy.

Finally, Foss leaned back in his chair with a sigh. "Her mood definitely has something to do with him."

Had he sent her a message? Was he threatening her? A whole club coming after you was a pretty good reason to be on edge.

"She searched for him and a high school, right? Think they knew each other back then?" Nash asked.

"How the hell should I know? I thought she grew up around here, but that school's like sixty miles away."

"Maybe we can find an old yearbook. Online," Nash said, tapping his nails on the armrest. "Though I doubt they had that stuff online twenty years ago. The school probably has the whole collection stashed somewhere."

Foss knew his friend well enough to predict that his next suggestion would involve breaking into the school. He shook his head. "I'll ask her about it again tomorrow." He closed the laptop. Maybe she'd open up a bit more then.