The thin motel-room walls did little to muffle the constant drone of interstate traffic—a low, relentless hum that matched the vibration of Jason’s shame. He sat on the edge of the bed, the cheap floral spread scratching at the backs of his legs, head buried in his hands. The air reeked of stale cigarettes and industrial disinfectant. Monica’s furious, betrayed scream still rang inside his skull. You sick pervert! My own mother! He had tried to explain, to apologize, but the nude photos of his mother-in-law tucked inside his accounting ledger had been impossible to deny.

A sharp knock on the door jolted him upright. His heart slammed against his...