Sam asked, ‘Are you looking for something?’

‘I’m just wondering what the inside of this van would look like if I shot you in the face.’

Sam stuttered out an uncomfortable laugh.

Angie took her gun out of her purse. She rested it on top of the iPad, her hand around the grip. Her finger pressed against the side of the trigger guard, the way she had been taught. Or maybe not. She looked down. Her finger was on the trigger.

‘Lady, please.’ Sam had stopped laughing. His hands were in the air. ‘I’m sorry, all right? Please don’t kill me. Please.’

‘Think about how you feel right now the next time you’re about to put my business on the street.’

‘I will. I promise.’

Angie shoved the gun back in her purse. She had gotten carried away. ‘Give me whatever you’re holding.’

He rummaged around in one of the bins and pulled out a bag of weed. ‘This is all I’ve got.’

Angie took the bag. She gathered up the electronics and climbed out of the van. Sam didn’t bother with the door. He streaked out of the parking lot before she could change her mind.

She got into her car. She carefully placed the iPad and the green phone on the seat beside her. She jammed her key into the ignition. The engine rumbled to life. The gears stripped.

Sam was Dale’s guy. She had almost shot the kid. Maybe. Who knew what the hell she had been thinking? Angie pulled the Glock out of her purse. She dropped the clip. She ejected the bullet from the chamber. It popped out like a jumping bean and disappeared under her seat. She did a visual to make sure the gun was unloaded. This would at least buy her some space before she pulled her gun the next time.

For right now, she had to get out of here.

Angie fought with the clutch and the shifter. The engine slipped into gear. She pulled out of the parking lot. She couldn’t decide which way to go. The green phone wouldn’t activate until Jo replied to a text. Angie had to assume Reuben was the only person who ever texted her. According to Laslo, he was in surgery all day. There was no telling when he would come out of anesthesia, but Angie knew the first thing he would do was check in with Jo. Or make her check in with him.

That left Sam’s iPad with the antennae jutting up from the back. Angie guessed that whatever shadow program Laslo had planted on Jo’s computer would yield very little to go on. Reuben wouldn’t let Jo leave for coffee without demanding proof of her actions. There was no way he wasn’t monitoring Jo’s emails and internet searches too.

Which left this: Jo had a plan. She was up to something that involved Marcus Rippy. Angie had no doubt about that. The girl who had told Hemingway to fuck off at the Starbucks was a girl who was keeping secrets.

Josephine, not Jo.

That was the name she had given the barista.

Angie recognized the sign of a woman trying to reinvent herself. A million years ago, when Angie was dropped off at the children’s home, she punched the first person who called her Angela instead of Angie.

Angela was what her pimp called her. Angie was what she called herself.

Reuben called his wife Jo. When Jo was alone, when she managed to pry open a tiny sliver of freedom, she called herself Josephine.

She was planning to get away, probably soon. Reuben would be back on Sunday. That gave Angie less than five days to figure out what her daughter was planning. She looked at her watch. Noon.

There was one source that she hadn’t yet tapped: LaDonna Rippy.

If you wanted to know shit about a woman, all you had to do was ask the woman who was pretending to be her friend.

WEDNESDAY, 12:13 PM

Angie punched her brakes as she did the stop-and-start thing up Piedmont Road. Thanks to overdevelopment and geography, there wasn’t a time during the day anymore when the narrow street was not clogged. She pushed the gear into first. The shift was smooth now, thanks to a detour to a gas station.

She checked the green phone to see if Jo had responded to a text yet. No luck. There was always the iPad with the rabbit ears, but Angie assumed Reuben policed the laptop the same way he policed Jo’s life. She wouldn’t be stupid enough to leave anything incriminating on there.

Besides, Angie had learned her lesson about looking at other people’s personal files. Sara had thousands of photographs stored on her hard drive, all meticulously organized by date and location. Will and Sara at the beach. Will and Sara camping. Will and Sara climbing Stone Mountain. It was nauseating how happy Sara always looked—not just in the pictures with Will, but also in much older photos with her dead husband.

Angie wondered if Will had ever seen a picture of Jeffrey Tolliver. His balls would’ve disappeared inside of his body. Tolliver had been fucking gorgeous. Tall, with dark wavy hair and a body your tongue could never get tired of. He’d played college ball at Auburn. He had been the chief of police. Just looking at him, you could tell he knew his way around a woman.

Angie had to admit, Sara Linton had good taste in cops.

Too bad she didn’t know when to keep her greedy hands off them.

Angie ran a red light, crossing onto Tuxedo Road amid a symphony of horns. She let the car coast. LaDonna and Marcus Rippy’s mansion was at the end of a gently sloping hill. Where most of the houses had bushes or trees to block the view from the street, LaDonna had made sure the house stood out. A hideously large gold-plated R was on the closed gates. The logo was LaDonna’s design. She put it on everything, even the hand towels.

Angie pulled up to the gates. She pressed the intercom, gave her name, and waited for the long buzz. She had been to the house a handful of times before to get LaDonna to sign papers from Kip’s office. Marcus had his wife on every piece of his business, which was smart or stupid, depending on whether you were LaDonna or Marcus.

The engine rumbled as she snaked up the driveway. There was a dog barking somewhere. Probably the family husky that shit all over everything because no one bothered to take him out. Cars filled the motor court at the top of the driveway. Two Jags, a Bentley, a neon-yellow Maserati.

‘Shit,’ Angie mumbled. LaDonna was holding court.

Angie had already been announced at the gate, so there was no backing out now. She walked under the portico, past the monitoring room, where a bored ex-cop took a catnap instead of watching live feed from the cameras around the estate. She knocked on the kitchen door. She waited.

The house was shaped like a giant U around an Olympic-size pool. Everything the family needed was on the grounds of the estate, which sounded fun until you realized that you could spend 24/7 on your own property and never see another person. Except for the help. There were dozens of them, all dressed in gray maids’ uniforms with white aprons, even though LaDonna had probably despised her uniform back when she was cleaning hotel rooms. Shit always rolls downhill.

Angie couldn’t tell if the servants didn’t speak English or if they were too afraid to talk. Like all the other times she had visited LaDonna before, the woman who opened the door didn’t say a word. She just tilted her head, indicating that Angie should follow her down a long hallway.

The decor gave a nod to LaDonna’s Greek heritage—statues and fountains and lots and lots of Greek keys up and down the walls. Just about everything was plated in gold. The faucets in the sinks were giant swans with wings for hot and cold. The chandeliers down the hallway were gold. Angie looked up at the fixtures. The arms were Rippy’s logo, curled Rs dripping with crystals that the sun hit like a laser. She had to look away to keep her retinas from burning. By the time the maid showed Angie into the nail salon, she was seeing spots.