It was a nice day for riding his bike, so he took his Harley Low Rider down GA-400 to Buckhead. Cruising along the highways on the motorcycle was normally a thrilling escape in itself, but he found his thoughts continuously circling back to that small heap of blood-soaked fur he’d discovered that morning in the woods.

The memory of that image was going to haunt him for a while.

Located on Peachtree Road near Lenox Square, Hoops billed itself as an “athletic center,” and while the facility featured adequate sections for weightlifting, aerobic machines, and circuit training, the place was primarily devoted to basketball. Several pro quality basketball courts dominated a high-ceilinged, cavernous space. Members reserved court time via a smart phone app or kiosk in the lobby, eliminating the need for the old-school reservation system of someone milling on the sidelines impatiently declaring, “I got next.”

Inside the arena, the sounds of bouncing basketballs and shoe soles squeaking against hardwood filled the air, like background music. The gym was full of men and a handful of women, mostly everyone in their twenties and thirties, though Troy did see a couple of gray-haired dudes fighting to hold their own against the younger generations.

He spotted Rod on one of the courts in the corner. Rod was launching shots from beyond the three-point arc. As Troy approached, one of Rod’s attempts clanged off the rim. Troy retrieved the ball.

“You’re outside your range, my brother,” Troy said.

Rod laughed, and they gave each other dap.

Like him, Rod was from the South side of Chicago, born and bred, but they had gone to different high schools—Troy to Lane Tech and Rod to Simeon. They met at Morehouse, and had been close ever since, though their career paths and lifestyles had diverged years ago. Troy had gone into medicine, married and had two children; Rod was a civil rights attorney, and a confirmed, childless bachelor.

Rod wore a Chicago Bulls throwback jersey. At six-four and about two hundred thirty pounds, he was often assumed to be a pro athlete himself, and with his bald dome, actually bore a striking resemblance to the boxer, George Foreman.

“My apologies for being late,” Troy said. “It’s been a rough weekend, man.”

“The funeral was yesterday.” Rod’s dark brown eyes were full of understanding. “Wish I could have been there, but I just got back in town this morning from Chicago. You all got my flowers?”

“Yeah, appreciate that—and listen, the funeral was the easy part.” Troy took a jump shot from near the free throw line, swished it. “Check this out. Monica’s mother was there.”

“Wait a minute.” Rod frowned. “Her mother?”

“Her biological mother. Thirty-nine years in, this woman suddenly decides to show her face.”

“No shit. Damn, so that was a good thing, right?”