What did Jo want? Judging by her demeanor, it seemed like she wished for nothing more than what she already had. A rich husband. A child. An easy life. The painful truth was that Jo was ordinary. She had attended a small high school outside of Griffin, Georgia. She had been smart enough to get into the University of Georgia, but not smart enough to graduate. Angie wanted to believe Jo had dropped out because she was a free spirit, but the math didn’t support it. She had left school for a man. Eight years ago, she had married Reuben Figaroa. He was two years her senior and already in the NBA. His reputation was that of a laser-focused player. Off the court, he was often described as reserved, cerebral. He wasn’t into flash. He was about doing the job right and going home to his family. Apparently this was what Jo wanted. She’d followed him to Los Angeles and to Chicago and now she had returned with him back to her home state. They had one kid, a boy, six years old, named Anthony.

This was where the publicly accessible information on Jo Figaroa ended. Despite her age, Jo wasn’t on social media. She wasn’t a joiner. There were no groups with which she was involved. She didn’t go to parties unless they were for her husband’s work. She didn’t meld with the wives. She didn’t lunch. She didn’t wander around the mall or hang out at the gym. The only way Angie was able to track her at all was through her husband.

One year ago, a Google alert had popped up in Angie’s feed. Reuben ‘Fig’ Figaroa was joining the Atlanta team. According to the article, the move was lateral, the kind of thing that could prolong Reuben’s career for another few years.

How had Angie felt when she read the news? Annoyed at first. She didn’t want the temptation. Only a raving bitch would show up in Jo’s life twenty-seven years after ditching her. Which is why Angie had vowed to leave it alone. No good would come out of trying to insert herself into her daughter’s peaceful world.

But then there was a second Google alert: the Figaroas had moved to Buckhead.

And a third: Reuben Figaroa signs with 110 Sports Management.

That was when Angie had finagled a job through Dale Harding, promising him some favors because she knew that favors were the one thing Dale needed.

Why?

Angie wasn’t one for introspection. Reaction was more her thing.

And curiosity.

She had been tracking Jo off and on for almost twenty years. Background checks, internet searches and even a couple of private detectives. At first Angie had wanted to know who had adopted her daughter. That was a natural curiosity. Who wouldn’t want to know? But like everything else in Angie’s life, it wasn’t enough. She had to make sure Jo’s parents were good people. Then she had to know more about Jo’s husband. Then she wanted to know who Jo’s friends were, how she spent her time, what she did with all the hours in her day.

Greedy. That was a better word. Angie did all of this because she was greedy. It was the same reason she couldn’t take just one pill, one drink, one man.

She wasn’t going to blow up Jo’s life. That was a promise. For now, for today, all that Angie wanted was to hear her daughter’s voice. She wanted to see if the tenor was the same. If Jo shared Angie’s dark sense of humor. If she was happy like she should be because she had dodged the biggest bullet of her life the day that Angie had bolted out of her hospital bed.

Twice in the same room. Twice Jo stood silently by her husband.

The girl didn’t look at Reuben Figaroa much, and that bothered Angie. After eight years of marriage, there shouldn’t be googly eyes, but something was off there. Angie felt it in her gut. She hadn’t worked for Kip long, but you didn’t need a PowerPoint presentation to understand the athletes’ wives. All they had was what their husbands did with a basketball. LaDonna always crowed the day after Marcus did something extraordinary on the court. Likewise, she was hell on heels if Marcus missed an important shot.

Not so much with Jo and Reuben. The more attention the husband got, the more it seemed like Jo wanted to disappear.

And the weird thing was, Reuben Figaroa was getting a lot of attention. Angie didn’t understand the terminology, but apparently Reuben’s team position wasn’t about the glory, more of a grinder than a breakout player. Somehow he had managed to make himself indispensable on the court, the guy who was willing to take a foul or knock some heads or whatever it took to make sure Marcus Rippy scored the basket.

Everybody won when Marcus Rippy scored a basket.

Reuben was the puzzle that Angie needed to figure out. There weren’t many pieces to put together. Unusually, he didn’t seek attention. He didn’t go to clubs or restaurant openings. He actively avoided the press. Interviewers always attributed his shy reserve to a childhood stutter. His background was as innocuous as Jo’s. Small-town high school in Missouri, full ride to Kentucky, late-round draft pick to the NBA, middling career until he got dusted with the Rippy magic. None of this afforded great insight. The only thing that made Reuben stick out was that he was white in a sport dominated by black men.

It did Angie no good to know that Jo had married a man who looked like her father.

Angie put her glass on the table. She stared out the window at the dark sky. Ten basketballs were lined up on the ledge. Championship balls, she guessed, but Angie gave not one shit about sports of any kind. The whole concept of men chasing a little ball back and forth bored her to tears. She didn’t particularly find the players attractive. If she wanted to fuck a tall, lanky man with perfect abs, she could go home to her husband.

At least she’d always thought she could. Will had waited for her. That was his thing. Angie would go away. She would have a little fun, then a little more fun, then a little too much fun, which would necessitate her going back to Will so that she could recharge. Or hide out. Or whatever she needed to do in order to reset herself. That was what Will was for. He was her safe harbor.

She had never anticipated that a fucking redheaded dinghy would drop anchor in her calm waters.

Angie got it. She saw the attraction. Sara was a good girl. She was smart, if being smart that way mattered. She was corn-raised, from a good family. If a woman like that loved you, then it meant that you were normal too. Angie could see where Will would be drawn to Sara’s wholesomeness. He had always been such a freakish goody-two-shoes. Volunteering to help Mrs Flannigan at the home. Cutting the neighbors’ grass. He wanted to do well in school. He studied his ass off. He always tried for the extra credit. Except for being retarded, he probably would’ve been a star student.

It breaks my heart that he’s so ashamed of his dyslexia, Sara had told Tessa. The irony is that he’s one of the smartest men I have ever known.

Angie wondered if Will knew Sara was talking to her sister about his secret. He would not be happy. He was ashamed for a damn good reason.

The overhead lights flickered. Angie looked up at the ceiling. She watched the fluorescent bulbs spark to life. Harding ambled over to the drink fridge and took out a bottle of BankShot. He plopped down on the opposite end of the couch. His eyes were more yellow than white. His skin was the texture and color of a dryer sheet.

‘Jesus,’ Angie said. ‘How much longer do you have?’

‘Too long.’ He grabbed her Scotch. She watched him top off the glass with the radioactive-looking energy drink.

She said, ‘That stuff will kill you.’