26 Addison

The doctors weren't sure if it was related to the cancer or his failing heart, only that her father's caregiver had found him face down in the bathroom—hopefully comfortable on her mom's old fuzzy pink bathmat—and barely breathing. Branch had called her Monday afternoon, just after she'd picked up Sara Caroline early and was in line for Preston, planning on driving to Florida to stay at a sorority sister's beach condo. Following Porter Hayes's precise instructions from a phone call after she'd left Alec's house, she'd already packed her bag and bags for the kids, too, withdrawing five thousand dollars cash from the household bank account and transferring another ten into an old private account Dean couldn't touch. But her best-laid plans turned to shit with the call about her dad. Now the kids were staying at Branch and Libby's, hopefully a neutral location that Dean wouldn't challenge even though he surely knew about the money.

Sami Hassan was dying. No kidding this time. This isn't a test. A nice young doctor who looked all of fifteen—serious Doogie Howser vibes—confided that her father was in such bad shape that he'd probably never leave the hospital. The doctor said his big heart was now the size of a deflated balloon.

Addison imagined a sad, red party balloon while she sat in the hospital cafeteria with Preston. Branch and Libby were up on the fourth floor with Dad, trying to give her a needed break after sitting at his bedside all day and night, catching an hour or two of sleep in a pullout chair.

She'd forced herself to get a plate of eggs and bacon with some hospital coffee, while Preston was delighted to find the hospital cafeteria boasted a full-out burger bar. They were eating when Dean walked in, immaculately dressed in his bespoke plaid suit and black turtleneck, a Burberry trench up under his arm. There were flecks of rain on his shoulders and in his perfect hair.

He offered a smile and took a seat at the table, making small talk with Preston.

"That looks pretty good, partner," he said. "How about we share?"

Preston gave the same ole shuck, pretending to pull the plate close to him, Addison seeing right away how much he'd missed his father. Who could blame him? There weren't exactly any Disney Channel shows that covered parents who stole identities and were international killers for hire. My Father: The Assassin with Tim Allen and Frankie Muniz coming up next...

"Pres," Addison said, "Daddy and I are going to go for a short walk. Don't go anywhere."

They didn't walk far, just out the cafeteria's side door into a little outdoor dining space and meditation garden, completely abandoned as they stood under the portico with the rain coming down hard. It had grown colder and their breaths clouded in front of them.

"What do you want?"

"I'm checking on my family," he said. "Is that not okay?"

"I want a divorce," she said. "I want you to stay the hell away from me and the kids and my entire family. That goes for my ass-kissing brother, too. You don't want this to go public and get ugly."

"You made this public the other night."

"Bullshit," Addison said. "You drugged me."

"Drugged you?" he said, laughing. "Do you know how crazy that sounds? Jesus, Addison."

"And I saw everything," she said. "Absolutely everything. I don't know who that man was or what he was doing in our house, but I saw you shoot him three times in the chest. And then I know you dragged his body out to god knows where. So can we please stop with your never-ending bullshit, Dean. Or whatever your name is."

"Whatever my name is?" he said. He shook his head. "I know you're upset about Sam. I am, too. But he'll get better. He always does. In the meantime, I'll get the kids back home and we'll talk it out once everything settles down."

Addison stepped forward and raised an index finger to his face. Her heart raced and she could hear the blood rushing in her ears. "You try and take the kids and I'll tell the police everything I know and everything I've seen. How would you like that?"

"You've completely lost it," he said. "Branch always said you were emotionally fragile and would break someday. I was stupid and never believed him."

Addison shook her head and tried to compose herself. What would Dr. Larry say? He'd probably say don't lose your temper, Addison, as that gives the other person the upper hand. You've lost as soon as they've seen you fly into a rage. Just walk away. If the person won't let you, find a safe place. Addison knew she was in a safe place. Dean wouldn't touch her here. Thank you, Dr. Larry.

"My father is on the fourth floor connected to tubes and hoses and is dying," she said. "I don't know who you are or the kind of people you've brought into our lives. But if you have just one small thread of honor, you'll check yourself into a hotel and let us have some space."

A sign in the meditation garden read: "Quiet Area. Please be respectful. No smoking or profanity allowed."

Dean, stoic Dean, rubbed his stubbled jaw and readjusted the trench coat under his arm. The heavy scent of his cologne penetrated the cold and rain. It smelled overpowering and tawdry. It used to smell of woodsmoke. "If that's what you want."

"That's what I want," Addison said. "Now please get the fuck out of the way and let me take care of my real family."

Addison was upstairs now, hours later, sometime after eight o'clock, with the nurses just by for their hourly rounds, checking on her dad's vitals. She didn't ask but knew they weren't promising or offering some kind of miraculous rebound. You know your dad's deflated old heart? We pumped it up and it's all better now! Her father slept, tubes jammed up his nose, his right arm like a pincushion, as Sara Caroline watched an episode of The Bachelor. A couple in a hot tub drank champagne while Preston was entranced by Crash Bandicoot on the PlayStation Portable.

Her father woke up for a moment, his dark eyes drawn and haggard, cracked lips parting. "Boy," he said. "I feel like dog shit."

"I'm so sorry, Dad."

"How much longer do I have to stay in this hellhole?"

Addison felt her throat constrict and willed herself not to cry. "Not much longer," she said. "A day or two."

"Please don't let me die in this place," he said. "It smells like cat piss and cotton swabs. And don't let Kiyana go through my stuff. I know you kids like her because she's Jamaican and says funny things, but I don't trust her. I think she took one of my footballs. The one from the Alabama game."

"I don't think Kiyana cares about American football."

"She understands eBay," he said. "Just promise me."

"I promise you."

"And, Addison," he said, "once someone is gone and there's money at stake, people can get really nasty. Have you ever seen The Treasure of the Sierra Madre?"

"No."

"Well, you should," he said. "Your brother is just like Fred C. Dobbs. I see it in his eyes when we talk about my estate. Don't you dare let him take more than his half. Everything has been decided, fifty-fifty after the condo is sold. And I'm leaving some to the church. I hope that's okay."

"That's fine, Dad."

"And a scholarship endowment at Ole Miss," he said. "In your mom's name."

"That's nice."

He opened his palm and Addison slipped her hand into his. His big-handed squeeze was so goddamn weak that she knew it wouldn't be around a hell of a lot longer. As his eyes were about to flutter closed, he said, "How are things with Dean?"

"Fine."

"He came up to see me."

"That's nice."

"I still don't trust him."

"Me, either."

"Be happy, Addy," Sami said. "Everything else is just a lie. Time, sweetheart, is a son of a bitch."

Addison watched her father fall back asleep just before Branch showed up with a big fluffy pillow and a blanket. She barely spoke to her brother as she gathered her stuff and the kids and took the elevator down to the first floor. They crossed the lobby filled with the sick and injured, a whole class of people—night to night and day to day—that Addison had never even considered. She felt like she was inside of a bus terminal with everyone heading in different directions.

"Do you think there's television in heaven?" Preston said, saying it like something he'd thought long and hard about.

"I'm not really sure."

"I hope so," Preston said, as they walked through the pneumatic doors and out into the cold and rain. "Granddad would really hate to miss Gunsmoke."

They went home. Branch swore he'd call at any hour if Dad's condition changed. It was almost eleven by the time they were back in Central Gardens, the kids piling out of the Escalade, Addison relieved she didn't see Dean's Land Rover in the garage or any lights on in the house. The one-armed man was dead. At least she wouldn't have to worry about him tonight. She only needed to worry about Dean coming to take the kids. She knew what Alec had said about Dean being a dangerous man, but he'd never harm her. He'd barely ever raised his voice to her.

Addison wandered into Dean's study as the kids trundled up the big staircase. She helped herself to one of Dean's finest scotches. The bottle he only offered special guests and only once a year for a small sip.

It was still raining. A Tiffany table lamp was lit on Dean's desk.

The study was almost pleasant despite today's circumstances. She thought about turning on the fireplace, but the gas logs weren't as comforting as the real thing. Since she'd been with Alec they'd only spoken twice. She'd called him as soon as she'd gotten to the hospital and once after the run-in with Dean. He wanted to come and see her, but she made him promise that he'd keep away. For now. Until everything was sorted out. She and the kids were safe and fine. She had little guilt. It had happened and she was glad.

She lifted the crystal glass and toasted the awfulness of her situation and took a nice long drink as she heard footsteps along the staircase. Preston wandered into the study. "I can't sleep."

"You were sleeping in the car."

"But I wasn't really asleep," he said. "I was faking it in case you and Sara Caroline started talking about Granddad."

"I told you everything."

"I heard one of the nurses talking outside the room."

"Oh." Addison set down the scotch and walked over to where Preston was standing. After being in the hospital, the warm library was a welcome change. As she glanced down at the rug, she noticed a deep swath of something that looked like blood. Her breath caught in her throat and she felt like she might be sick.

"Do you know where we go when we die?" Preston asked.

Crap. There it was, the big question. The eternal mystery laid right out there for them to discuss on a school night, which really wasn't a school night because there was no way she was waking them up tomorrow at six. She wanted to spin Preston a tale about the pearly gates and the heavenly welcome, the clouds and the city in the sky (that she always imagined looked like Bespin from Empire Strikes Back), but damn, she was just so tired.

"Dad said when I got too worried about those things to pray."

"Yeah?" Addison said, taking another pull of the scotch. Damn, it was good. "Your dad would say that."

"Don't you believe Dad?"

"Things are just a little confusing now."

Preston nodded and smiled. The front of his hoodie was absolutely filthy, with greasy hamburger handprints. "Dad told me he may not come home for a while."

"That's true."

"And that if anything happened or more bad people ever showed up, to go and hide in the safe room."

Addison nodded, sure, sure, the secret place. The safe room. She turned and looked at her son.

"He said you guys would take us there if bad guys ever broke in or there was a tornado or something," Preston said. "Right? Dad told me to never ever talk about it. That the bad guys might hear us. Is that true?"

Addison shone the flashlight around the basement until Preston began to move some of Dean's old boxes, old electronics, and sports equipment, including two sets of golf clubs that seemed to still be in perfect condition.

"What are you looking for?" she said.

"The door."

"There isn't a door."

"Sure there is," he said.

The walls were very old brick, and the air under the house smelled like a crypt. She hated being down here, making her feel like she'd been locked away in a tomb. Preston pulled away a few more boxes and then pointed to a heavy-duty metal shelf stacked with electric saws and tools. He unlatched a corner and to Addison's surprise, it swung open like a gate. Behind the shelf was a steel door with a small keypad in the center.

"How long have you known about this?"

"I followed Dad down here this summer," he said. "I promised I wouldn't tell anyone."

A little confusion passed over his small face, not sure if he'd done the right thing. Addison touched his shoulder and said, "You're worried about me," she said. "After what happened with that man?"

"You should know," he said. "In case someone comes back."

Preston quickly punched in a code and the metal door clicked open, fluorescent lights fluttering to life as they both pushed inside. The space wasn't very large, maybe twenty by twenty feet. Someone had laid down some industrial gray carpet, added a bit of molding at the corners, making it appear like a luxury closet, and attached pegboard to one wall. Instead of tools, the pegboard was filled with dozens of rifles and handguns, small bins with clips fill of ammunition and various backpacks and belts that looked as if they'd been dragged through hell and back. A flat desk had been built into a space that looked like a small closet with six computer monitors—all on—above a brand-new Apple set up.

"Don't touch anything," she said.

"Why not?"

"This isn't a safe room," she said. "It's a damn arsenal."

Something in the ceiling caught her eye, a bauble that looked like an upside-down snow globe with a mirror surface. Addison walked up on it, transfixed, and then immediately knew it was a surveillance camera like they used in department stores. Shit, shit, shit.

"What's wrong?"

Addison walked back over to the computer, touched the space bar, and nine different monitors came to life. Each one of them showed a corner of her home, including the bottom left looking down right at her and Preston. Her empty pool, her kitchen, her bedroom, and the bathrooms.

"Isn't this cool?"

"This is definitely not cool," she said. "Promise me that you'll never come down here ever again."

Addison turned to flip through three different passports that lay on top of the desk. Two blue with American eagle covers. One had been issued to Dean McKellar and a second, much more worn to the touch, for Peter Frank Collinson. With trembling fingers, she'd just picked up the third passport with the gilded symbol for the United Kingdom, Jonathan Devlin, when Dean stooped down and entered the space.

"Preston," he said. "I'm very disappointed in you."

Addison set down the passport and looked to Dean. "You're the one who's disappointed?" she said. "Well, back up the truck. I have an entire fuckton of disappoint I'd like to drop on your head, Dean. Or is it Peter? Or whoever you are in London."

"Preston, go upstairs," he said. "I need to have a talk with Mommy."