By the time I pull into the spot behind the laundromat, the sky over Crescent Bay has gone that bruised purple that never shows up in tourist brochures.
The harbor lights blink beyond the cliffs, a row of glitter pinned above the rock shelf where kids used to sneak cigarettes after dances and pretend gravity didn’t apply to them. Somewhere down there, waves slap stone in the same rhythm they did in 1997, indifferent to regattas and PTA power-brokers and Elliot’s speeches about “healing.”
My phone sits face down in the cup holder. I haven’t opened my podcast app again. Juliet’s last argument with Elliot is still trapped inside that thumb drive in my bag, the words “I can make this disappear” burned into my brain in Rafi’s slowed-down, cleaned-up version.
For now, I pick up a different problem: dinner.
“You made real food?” Theo eyes the pot suspiciously when I slide it onto the table.
“Pasta counts,” I say. “And the sauce came from a jar with a label, not a drive-thru bag. That’s two food groups. Three if we pretend the basil is a vegetable.”
The apartment smells like boiling noodles, jarred tomato, and fabric softener drifting up through the floor vents, the laundromat’s always-on perfume. Outside, the liquor store’s neon sign bleeds pink light through our thin curtains. Somewhere down the block, bass from some waterfront party thumps just under hearing, Crescent Bay’s heartbeat set to an endless throwback playlist.
Theo twists his fork into the noodles. “Did Luz say anything?” he asks, voice casual in a way that bends something in my chest.
“About what?” I ask, even though I know.
“About the tape,” he says. “About whether you’re gonna… you know. Put it in the show.”
My fork scrapes my plate. “We’re still deciding,” I say. “It’s not just content, remember? It’s evidence. That means we have to think about courts and lawyers and people who like to wear suits and pretend they’re gods.”
He snorts softly. “I hate suits.”
“A noble instinct,” I say.
His foot nudges mine under the table. It feels like a question. Are we safe? Are we okay? Are you still my mom first and a podcaster second?
I open my mouth to answer, but someone knocks on the door.
Three sharp raps, official-sounding, not neighbor or delivery.
My stomach drops. For half a second, I picture Elliot himself on the other side, or one of his lawyers clutching a thick envelope. Or Oracle, somehow upgraded from blocked account to flesh and bone.
“Stay,” I tell Theo, pushing my chair back so fast it shrieks. “Keep eating.”
“Who is it?” he whispers.
“Probably some PTA mom with a fundraising form,” I say. “Don’t worry.”
I don’t believe that. He doesn’t either.
I open the door on the chain.
A woman in a gray blazer stands in the hallway, one hand on a leather satchel, the other around a clipboard with a laminated ID clipped to it. Her hair’s pulled back in a puff, her expression neutral in that practiced, don’t-scare-them way. Behind her, the stairwell smells like old paint and dryer lint.
“Mara Lane?” she asks.
The little photo on her ID catches my eye: Department of Children and Families, State of Connecticut.
My throat tightens. “Yes,” I say. The word scrapes.
“My name is Ms. Ramirez,” she says. “I’m a social worker with DCF. We received a report concerning your son, Theo. I need to speak with you both.”
For a second, all the sound drops out of the hallway. No laundry hum, no distant bass. Just the blood roaring in my ears.
“A report,” I repeat. My fingers dig into the edge of the door. “What kind of report?”
Her gaze flicks to the chain. “I’ll explain inside,” she says. “This is a surprise visit. That’s standard.”
Behind me, Theo’s chair scrapes. “Mom?”
I swallow hard, close my eyes for one breath, then close the door to unhook the chain.
When I open it again, my voice comes out too bright. “Sorry, it sticks sometimes,” I say. “Come in.”
Ms. Ramirez steps into my apartment and immediately takes in everything: the piled mail on the counter, the cheap mic on the kitchen table next to Theo’s plate, the tangle of cords by the laptop, the stack of donor-branded tote bags slumped near the door from various Crescent Bay fundraisers I never felt fancy enough to attend.
“Hi,” Theo says from the table, small and stiff.
“You must be Theo,” she says. Her smile is gentle but professional, the kind people use with kids in doctor’s offices. “I’m Ms. Ramirez. Do you mind if I sit with you both for a little bit?”
“You got here during dinner,” I say. “Can we…? Or do we need to…?”
“Please, keep eating,” she says, flipping her clipboard open. The paper ruffles. “I’ll just ask a few questions, if that’s alright.”
It’s not alright, but this is the kind of person you don’t say no to unless you want your name on another, worse form.
I sit back down. My chair feels suddenly too small, the table too flimsy. Theo watches me like I can fix this with a joke or a clever edit.
“So,” Ms. Ramirez says, pen poised. “We received an anonymous call expressing concern about Theo’s exposure to violent material and unsafe environments, in connection with your podcast and some recent media coverage.”
She says it calmly, but each word lands like a drop of acid.
“Anonymous,” I say. “Of course.”
“We take all reports seriously,” she says. “The caller referenced specific incidents. I’m required to follow up.”
“What incidents?” My knuckles whiten around my fork.
Her eyes move down her form. “They mentioned that Theo was present when you received a death threat. That he has heard ‘graphic stories about murder’ on a regular basis. That he has been to a dangerous cliff area connected to a local homicide, and that he recently went missing for several hours.”
Theo’s hand jerks. His fork clatters against his plate, splattering sauce onto the table.
He looks at me, guilty and scared and thirteen.
The cliffs. The day he went AWOL. The morning show segment. The death threat.
Whoever made the call didn’t just skim headlines. They’ve been studying my life.
“Do you mind if I ask Theo a couple of questions directly?” Ms. Ramirez says.
I want to say no. I want to fold him behind me like a shield. Instead, I hear my custody lawyer’s voice in my head: Cooperate. Don’t give them a reason to write “uncooperative” on any form.
“Go ahead,” I say. My voice comes out thin.
She turns to him. “Theo, do you know what my job is?”
He shrugs. “You check if moms mess up?”
My lungs ache.
She smiles a little. “I check to see if kids are safe,” she says. “That’s all. Do you feel safe here with your mom?”
His gaze darts to me, then back to her. “Yeah,” he says quickly. “She’s… she’s a good mom. Better than my dad at cooking.” He forces a laugh that dies halfway out.
Ms. Ramirez makes a note. “Do you ever feel scared at home?” she asks. “Not just about monsters under the bed. Big scared.”
He chews his lip. The neon from the liquor store paints one side of his face pink.
“Sometimes the stories are scary,” he says. “From the podcast. But not, like, her. Just… people.”
“Does she play them when you’re around?” Ms. Ramirez asks. “The, ah, stories about murder.”
“Not all of them,” he says. “I hear bits. Through the wall. Or when she’s editing and forgets her headphones. And kids at school talk about it anyway.”
My cheeks burn. I grip my chair to keep from jumping in.
“Have you ever asked her to stop?” Ms. Ramirez asks.
He frowns. “I asked her if the killer would come for us,” he says. “One time. After the TV thing. She hugged me. She didn’t stop the podcast, though.” He glances at me, apologetic.
That line will live in some file forever now. She didn’t stop the podcast.
Ms. Ramirez nods, jotting that down. “The report mentioned a place called the cliffs,” she says. “Have you been there?”
Theo’s leg bounces under the table. “Yeah,” he says. “Kids hang out there. It’s like… Crescent Bay’s thing. Everyone goes at some point.”
“Did your mom take you?” she asks.
“No,” he says. “I went by myself. That one day they freaked out.” He swallows. “I cut school. I wanted to see where Juliet fell. From the story.”
The air in the room shifts, heavy and sour. My heart bangs against my ribs in double time.
“Did you tell your mom where you were going before you left?” Ms. Ramirez asks gently.
“No.” His shoulders hunch. “I knew she’d say no.”
She looks over at me. “How did you respond when you found out where he’d been?”
“I grounded him,” I say. “No screens, no Discord, no podcast involvement. I called the school to apologize. I told him the cliffs are dangerous. People fall. The rocks below—” My voice wobbles; I clamp my jaw shut.
I remember standing at that fence as a teenager, watching older kids climb down like they were immortal. I remember Juliet’s smile under the prom lights and the glass roses on the tables, little weapons disguised as décor. Crescent Bay has always trusted curated aesthetics more than warning signs.
Ms. Ramirez writes more. “The report also mentioned a death threat,” she says. “Was Theo present when that occurred?”
“The email was on my laptop,” I say. “He wasn’t in the room. He overheard me talking about it. That’s different.”
“Did you discuss it with him?” she asks.
“Later,” I say. “I tried to be honest without giving him nightmares. I told him there are dangerous people in the world and also people who will protect us. I didn’t read him the part about his bus route.”
Theo stares at his plate. Sauce congeals around his fork.
“Theo,” Ms. Ramirez says, “do you have anyone you talk to when you’re scared? A counselor, teacher, another adult?”
His eyes flick toward the ceiling. “Mr. Patel,” he says. “Guidance. And, um, I talk into my phone sometimes. Like… my own podcast, I guess. But no one hears that.”
The admission knocks the breath out of me. I didn’t know about that last part.
“That’s clever,” she says. “Talking can help. Even if it’s into a device. Have you ever worried your mom cares more about her podcast than you?”
The question slices straight through me. I feel it in my spine.
Theo hesitates. His fingers tremble on the fork. “No,” he says finally. “She just… really doesn’t want Juliet’s story buried. And people keep trying to make her shut up. But she makes us mac and cheese still. So. It’s both.”
Ms. Ramirez’s mouth turns down at the corner. She writes for a long moment, her pen scratching. I can see phrases landing on that paper that will follow us into courtrooms and meeting rooms where my life gets summarized in bullet points.
“Thank you, Theo,” she says. “You can go finish eating in the living room if you want. I’d like to speak with your mom alone for a minute.”
He shoots me a look full of apology and fear. I try to give him a reassuring smile, but my lips shake.
“Take your plate,” I say. “And no video games yet.”
“I know,” he mutters.
The sound of his retreating footsteps, plate clinking, feels louder than any mixer on my laptop.
Ms. Ramirez waits until he’s out of earshot. The TV clicks on in the other room, volume low, some rerun laugh track bleeding faintly through the wall.
“Mara,” she says, voice softer now. “I’m not here to attack you. But I have to tell you, the combination of factors in this report—the public nature of your work, the threats, the media coverage—raises concerns for the court.”
My spine stiffens. “Concerns about what?” I ask. “My content or my parenting?”
“They’re intertwined,” she says. “The question is whether your choices increase risk to Theo.”
“Do you ask that of every parent who takes a kid to a Prom Throwback fundraiser where the town reenacts the night a girl died?” I ask. “Do you ask that of donors who put their names on plaques while their sons bully kids at the cliffs?”
Her expression doesn’t change, but a muscle ticks in her jaw. “This isn’t about the town right now,” she says. “It’s about you.”
“That’s exactly the problem,” I say. “The people who buried Juliet’s case are using every institution they control to keep it buried. School board, PTA, now DCF. My ex has been handing them clips of my worst moments in court for months. You think an anonymous call is random?”
She lets that hang in the steamed-up kitchen air for a beat.
“Anonymous reports can come from anyone,” she says finally. “Including people close to you. Including listeners who are genuinely frightened. My job isn’t to find the caller. My job is to document what I see and hear tonight.”
“And what are you going to write?” I ask quietly.
She looks around again: the clean dishes drying in the rack, the math worksheet on the fridge under a magnet shaped like a glass rose from a thrift store that I once thought was funny, the secondhand mic snagged in cords.
“That Theo appears bonded to you,” she says. “That he expresses feeling safe at home, with some anxiety related to the content of your work. That there have been recent stressors: threats, media attention, a truancy incident at a known hazardous location. That you responded with appropriate discipline, but that the overall environment is high-conflict.”
Each phrase lands with the weight of a potential headline.
“Will this go to the judge handling my custody case?” I ask.
“Yes,” she says. “Any open family court matters are notified. They’ll consider my report in future decisions.”
The room tilts for a second. I grip the chair to stay anchored.
“Is there anything I can do?” I ask. “To show—”
“Keep him in counseling,” she says. “Limit his exposure to violent material. Consider tightening boundaries between your work and home life. Document threats and your responses. That all reflects well on you.”
“And if I stop the podcast?” I ask. “Would that reflect well?”
Her gaze flicks up to mine. For the first time, something like sympathy cracks through her professional calm.
“My job isn’t to tell you which stories you’re allowed to tell,” she says. “But mothers should be aware of the tradeoffs.”
She closes her clipboard with a soft snap.
“You’ll get a copy of my report,” she says, standing. “There may be follow-up visits. Please make sure Theo knows he can reach out to his school counselor anytime. Good night, Ms. Lane.”
The door clicks shut behind her.
I stand in the middle of my kitchen, breathing tomato steam and laundromat heat, listening to the wheels of the state’s machinery grind into motion with my name caught in the gears.
Theo falls asleep on the couch later, curled around his half-finished homework, the TV washing his face in blue.
I cover him with a blanket and sit at the table again with my laptop. The little glass rose magnet stares back at me from the fridge door, its red petals chipped, a joke turned omen.
I open my email.
The top of my inbox blooms with new messages: Sadie, Luz, a spam offer for podcast cover art, a PTA reminder about the next Prom Throwback planning meeting I will definitely skip.
And one from “no-reply@maskedmail.com,” subject line: concerned citizen.
My finger hovers over the trackpad. A faint smell of hair spray and salt air drifts up from some neighbor getting ready for a night shift or a date, Crescent Bay’s trademark perfume.
I click.
The body of the email is one line, no greeting, no sign-off.
Mothers should know when to put their children first.
My stomach twists. My mind runs through the usual suspects—Elliot with his curated empathy, Oracle with their performative morality, some PTA mother who wants my podcast canceled and her name on another donor plaque.
Whoever sent it knew the exact phrase Ms. Ramirez used in my kitchen.
I stare at the screen until the words blur, my cursor blinking at the end like it’s waiting for me to reply, to promise I’ll stop, to agree that justice for a dead prom queen isn’t worth risking my son.
I don’t type anything.
I just sit there, caught between the microphone and the system, wondering which one will take Theo from me first if I keep going—and which one will swallow Juliet again if I don’t.