I remember the first time I knew something was wrong.

It was 2018, Miles’ eighth birthday. We’d baked him a cake, hung streamers, invited his two friends from school. He smiled, blew out the candles, hugged us both—but that night, he stood over me in the dark, holding a kitchen knife, whispering in a language I didn’t recognize.

I screamed. He dropped the blade, started crying, said he didn’t remember getting out of bed.

The psychiatrist thought it was night terrors. The school called it behavioral issues. But when Arthur played the tape—the Hungarian words, the threat—I felt it in my bones: this wasn’t our son.

Now, John’s in a coma because Miles stabbed him on the way to the facility. I found the clippings—Edward Scarka’s crimes, all dated before Miles was born. And the book—Margaret’s book—hidden under his mattress.

She’s the key. She’s the one who got away.

I’m driving through the night, Miles asleep in the backseat, a loaded gun in my purse. I tell myself this is the only way. If I kill her, maybe the thing inside him will let go.

The farmhouse appears through the trees. Lights on. She’s home.

I knock. She answers, older, tired, but kind.

'Please,' I say, 'your book saved me. I need help.'

She hesitates—then opens the door.

I step inside. My hand trembles toward my purse.

But can I really pull the trigger?