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Something in his voice piqued my interest. When he told me her name, Sable Lovelace-Graves, the way he said it sounded distasteful. Like it offended him. Then he said, “That bitch gotta go,” but he wouldn’t say why. That’s all well and good as long as the money changes hands, but I don’t get the sense this is about the usual shit. She isn’t cheating, far as I can tell. No abuse allegations. No scandals. Could be money, but he seems a little too passionate for it to be that simple.

Nah. This is deeper.

Which is why I’m curious.

But after watching her boring routine, all I can surmise is that she’s either an innocent victim of her husband, or she’s one hell of an actress.

I crank up my car and get back on the road, reminding myself I’m not supposed to care either way.

But I already do.

2

Sable

Hump day.

Who came up with that?

I hate Wednesdays, because that little colloquialism always reminds me how long it’s been since I’ve been humped.

“Rae. Kelice. Let’s go!”

No time for breakfast this morning, because my two little monsters overslept. I grab two bananas and a two-pack of strawberry pop tarts and head toward the garage, my eyes darting on instinct.

I forgot Brett’s not here this morning to scold me about feeding his daughters processed trash.

“Y’all have two minutes! I’m serious!” I yell, but they’re probably laughing at me up there. I’m not really a yeller. I can do the look, though. All black mamas can. I fix one on my face so they can see it when they get to the bottom of the stairs.

Sure enough, Kelice stops in her tracks when she sees me.

“Sorry, Mommy,” she rushes out as she tucks her blouse into the waistband of her plaid skirt.

“Mm hm. Where’s your sister?”

Rae runs down, her tiny backpack bouncing against her shoulders as she races toward me.

“This is breakfast,” I say, handing them their fruit and garbage. I almost say,don’t tell your daddy, but I stop myself. I no longer give two shits what that man has to say about anything.

The girls giggle as they race each other to the car, and I smile, because they’re both light—not physically, but emotionally. No burdens. No worries. I can’t remember the last time I felt light.

Once I drop them off at school, I head east toward downtown. It’s Atlanta, so I settle in for a long drive. If Brett wonders why I was out longer than I usually am in the mornings, I’ll tell him I went to the spa.

He checks the cameras every day. Monitors the alarm system, too. When it’s armed, when it’s disarmed, who came to the door, who exited the door.

Sometimes I wonder if that state-of-the-art security system is for keeping outsiders out, or me inside.

It all sounds worse than it really is, I guess, but I’m not sure normal husbands do these things. I’m not sure I even know what normal is anymore.

I arrive at Southern Trust Bank forty minutes later. It’s large, covered in beige marble, and has heavy glass doors that I had to strain to open. Inside, it’s cold, but it smells like money. I reach into my purse and pull out the little brass key I found in the little secret compartment in Brett’s jewelry drawer. I took it a week ago when he was in Houston for a conference. Or a “conference.” I’m never sure anymore, but I no longer care.

“I need to get into a safe deposit box,” I tell the smiling personal banker when she comes out to greet me.

“Yes, ma’am,” she says. “And just to verify, you are an authorized user on the box?”

I swallow hard. She’s still smiling, but it’s tight like she knows I’m about to ask her for a favor. She kind of reminds me of me when I was younger—cute, black, trusting, just trying to do my job.

“I’m not,” I say.