1 Chapter 1

The minor league baseball stadium in downtown Richmond known only as the Diamond seats 9,000 fans during a game, but on this cloudless July Sunday, Rob Ritchie is the only person in the stands. He sits on the lower level immediately behind home plate, where he can watch each player take a turn at the bat. This isn’t game day—it’s practice, and the team on the field is one he isn’t familiar with, the Wildwood Waves. Visiting from New Jersey, the Waves take on Richmond’s own Rebels in a week-long series beginning Tuesday.

Rob wears a Rebels polo shirt, the team’s signature R logo embroidered on a pocket above his left breast. Paired with his khaki shorts, the shirt makes him look like just another stadium employee, which is the impression he wants to give. So far no one from the visiting team has looked at him twice.

Good.

Sunglasses hide his eyes, so no one sees how closely he follows every swing of the bat. He holds a battered baseball glove idly in one hand, as if hoping for a foul ball to come his way. In his other hand is a cone-shaped cup full of shelled peanuts. Every time the player at bat swings and misses, Rob tips the cup into his mouth for a snack.

Most of the team has batted already. Rob’s made a mental note of each player’s number and what their swing is like. Number 12, left-handed, likes to bunt. Number 55 swings both ways, but tends to foul. Number 23, right-handed, chokes up on the bat.

The only players who haven’tbeen up yet are the pitcher, the umpire, and a man in a windbreaker and jeans leaning against the cage behind home plate. Rob can’t figure out who he might be. Too fit to be the coach—that position is held by the gum-chewing fat ass spitting over the railing in front of the dugout. Assistant coach, perhaps, but Rob suspects that fellow’s the bastard yelling obscenities beside third base. Glorified bat boy, perhaps? Too old, for starters, and two teenage kids already run after the foul balls and corral the bats in the warm-up area.

This guy’s on the team, no doubt about it—the jacket he wears sports the number 3—but why he doesn’t swing, Rob can’t quite figure out.

Number 10 is at bat. Swings, misses. Rob treats himself to another swig of peanuts. If the team plays this poorly in practice, he can’t wait to see how well they do in two days’ time. The Rebels are middle of their league at the moment; a few wins would boost them into position to maybe make it into their division’s Championship Series this year. He could hope, anyway. The Waves don’t look all that hot.

The pitcher runs through another couple players, then trades off with another for his own time at bat. Rob only half-watches—most of his attention is on the guy against the cage. All Rob sees is a profile, but it’s enough to suggest the man’s not hard on the eyes. Tall, Rob likes that. Lithe, definitely a ball player, with those long arms and lean legs. Aquiline nose, square jaw, chiseled cheekbones, high brow. A crop of dusty blond hair curls behind his ears and under the brim of the baseball cap he wears.

Rob isn’t aware he’s staring until the crack of a bat sends a ball whizzing into the air and the other guy looks up, up, up, turns, following the ball, and sees Rob looking at him.

Quickly Rob leans back and downs the rest of the peanuts. He sees the ball—a pop foul—fly over the cage and into the upper level of stands above him, where it bounces off one of the concrete seats, arcs into the air again, and heads down.

Straight for Rob.

He scrambles out of his seat, glove ready. The ball lands a few rows behind him, so he drops the empty cup and hurries after it. Supposed to be invisible, remember?he reminds himself as he chases after the ball. Watching the team practice while you’re on break. That’s your story. Stick to it.

Behind him, from the direction of the field, he hears the squeal of hinges and groans. Someone’s coming after the ball, which means someone will speak to him, ask him what he’s doing here, who he is, what he wants…Rob ducks between the seats and snags the ball as it rolls along the concrete floor. If he’s lucky, maybe he can head back up to the concourse and leave without incident.

He isn’t lucky.

“Hey,” a voice calls out. Rob turns—it’s the guy from the cage. He used the door in the fencing to leave the field, in pursuit of the ball, and now stands a few steps down from Rob, hands on his hips.