35 Addison

This time last year, Dean had flown the whole family to Mustique to celebrate her thirty-ninth birthday. He'd rented a private plane and a private villa built on the ruins of an old fortress overlooking the Caribbean. The villa came with 24/7 staff and two golf carts to run down to the beach for snorkeling or scuba or over to the Cotton House for one of their amazing dinners. The decision to make each day was to either get a massage at the spa or head to their own private lagoon. Sea turtles. Galloping horses along the beach. One night at the island's artfully shabby bar, Dean had arrived in all his silly-ass white linen glory, complete with huarache sandals and a new straw hat, wanting her to meet their new neighbors.

She recalled the man being French, Dean calling him just Gaultier, no idea if that was a first or last name. She'd tried to shake hands, but the man brought her hand up to his lips as Dean asked if she might show Monsieur Gaultier's beautiful female friend their villa. The men had some kind of business to discuss. The woman had shrugged, seemingly used to it, and rode along in the golf cart into the hills.

She'd thought, that was Dean. Always working. But now, lying on her single bed and staring up at the ceiling in rehab, she knew the whole fucking thing was odd. The family vacation had been an afterthought to his own goddamn business.

She'd been pretty drunk that night at Mustique, Dean not finding any problems with her drinking back then, as she wound the narrow little roads in her golf cart, headlights scattering over the palms and large boulders. The woman—so pretty and so quiet—rode beside Addison. The only thing Addison could think to ask was "Are you two married?"

The question brought a smile to the woman's face. She was small boned, with delicate features and the most beautiful brown curly hair. Short and stylish. Addison told her it was so lovely and that she herself could never pull it off. The woman turned to her and said: But it is perhaps your husband's gaze that you worry about?

Back at the villa,Addison opened up a new bottle of wine from a whole cellar of the stuff, and they sat out on the wide stone deck overlooking the water. She couldn't remember the woman's name or where she was from, only that the woman seemed annoyed that she'd been left with some stupid American.

"Matt Damon was at the bar tonight," Addison said. "He's super short."

"In this place, you learn not to care," she said. "Prince William arrived a few months ago. So much security and the roads being closed. I saw him later at the Cotton House. It looks as if his royal hair has started to thin."

"Would you like more wine?"

The woman had smiled. "It is with wine that our lives become slightly more tolerable."

The woman stared out at the water and Addison had gone inside the villa to check on Preston and Sara Caroline, both of them acting exactly the same as they would back in Memphis. Never mind the gorgeous private island with the stars and the moon and the fucking lovely beach. Sara Caroline was on her bed texting and Preston was watching a car chase on a giant television.

She walked back out to the patio and found the young Frenchwoman still staring out at the endless black Caribbean. She was crying.

"Are you okay?"

"It's just so endless," she said. "This life. This money is like chains."

Addison knew she was drunk or high. So incredibly dramatic. She had been about to ask what she meant when Dean had showed back up with Gaultier. When Addison asked them to please stay, the man had shook his head and smiled. "We are already quite late for dinner. I think it is the lobster tonight. No?"

After they disappeared, Addison had asked, "And what exactly does he do?"

"Like most people here," he said. "Spends money as fast as he earns it."

"And you just met him today?"

"Never saw him before in my life."

Addison heard her doorknob rattle and tossed a beaten paperback onto the floor. She knew it was night but had absolutely no idea of the time. They'd already brought in her grilled chicken, French green beans, and two soft white rolls and had even come back for the tray. Maybe it was Dr. Bledsoe making the late rounds, wanting to know why—yet again—Addison didn't want to participate with her group. Being open and honest is your path to sobriety. Addison looked down at herself, dressed for bed in a flowery hospital gown that tied twice at the back. After her escape, they hadn't even offered her any flip-flops.

The door opened and some huge Black guy burst into the room. He had on navy coveralls and carried a big spray canister like she used on her rosebushes back home.

"You better do a good job," she said. "This place is crawling with roaches."

The big man set down the canister and walked toward her. He looked to be only a little younger than her dad, with graying hair and a broad grin. "My name is Deacon Malone," he said, trying to catch his breath. "I've come to get you the hell out of here."

Addison propped herself up on the bed and stared at him, running the words back in her mind. He tossed a duffel bag down at her feet and nodded toward it.

"Who are you?"

"Deacon Malone," he said.

"Okay?"

"Porter Hayes sent me."

"Porter Hayes," she said. "Jesus Christ. Why didn't you just say so?"

Porter Hayes, Obi Wan. Deacon Malone, Luke Skywalker.It was all fine by her and she stood up and unzipped the bag. "Porter packed a few things for you to change into. Can't be walking the halls like that."

"And how the hell did you get in?"

"Strolled in with some tools and roach spray," he said. "Nobody paid me any mind."

"Fair enough."

"Come on," he said. "We don't have much time. These folks changing shifts now."

They slipped out of the cabin with no problem. Pepper and Salt, as Addison had named the big Black woman and her skinny country cousin who kept her locked up, were nowhere to be seen. As she followed Malone outside and down the pebbled paths, she saw the big Cracker Barrel lodge completely lit up by some kind of event going on in the main room.

Hayes had packed her some old gray sweatpants and a Grizzlies sweatshirt along with a pair of Chuck Taylors that were two sizes too big. But she wasn't complaining as she flopped down the path feeling like Ronald Fucking McDonald. She was getting out of this place and back home to confront Dean's sorry ass and save her children from that psycho. She wasn't fucking around anymore. She was going straight to the Memphis police or the feds. She was going to get a mean-ass attorney. She was going to quadruple Porter Hayes's daily rate and they were going to find out exactly who this son of a bitch really was... the real Dean McKellar was a dead man. She was married to a dead man.

She felt as if she was almost home when she saw Dr. Bledsoe step into the lighted path. The wind whipped the white coat around her as two men in matching black polo shirts joined the doctor to block their way. One of the men had his hand on a gun.

"Oh, Addison," Dr. Bledsoe said, shaking her head. "Who is this man? I thought we'd come to such a wonderful understanding today."

"I have no idea," she said. "I just gave him a hand job so he'd give me a pint of vodka in his car."

That really threw Bledsoe, and she looked to one of the guards. The man reached for his gun and Deacon Malone—what a name!—held up his hands. Addison could hear the cold, brisk wind high up in the pines and then the hard snick of what sounded like a shotgun.

"On your knees, Doc," someone in the dark said. "Or you gonna be pickin' buckshot out your asshole."

Dr. Bledsoe froze. She looked to the guards and nodded. The guards turned and came toward Addison before someone came out of the dark and knocked one of them to the ground. The other man looked over at Bledsoe, licked his lips, and then carefully got down on his knees and laced his hands behind his head. "Y'all don't pay me enough to get my head blowed off."

"And you, too, lady."

The voice became a man and the man stepped from the shadows. It was Porter Hayes, dressed in his brown leather trench coat and carrying a shotgun, long cigarette bobbing from his lips. "What the damn hell?" he said. "Are we going to have a failure to communicate, Doctor? Get on your goddamn knees."

Dr. Bledsoe, pasty-faced with her dyed red hair and white coat, slowly dropped to one knee and then two. She winced with pain as Deacon Malone took handguns off the two guards. Hayes glanced up at Addison and motioned with his head back behind him.

Addison didn't hesitate and ran flat out to the parking area, where they found Porter's old black Mercedes with the lights on and engine running. Addison scooted in back and Malone hopped behind the wheel and made a big sweeping U-turn, kicking up gravel and dirt. They skidded to a stop near where Hayes held the doctor and the guards at the end of his shotgun. Malone leaned over the console and opened the passenger door. Hayes jumped inside and Malone floored the accelerator.

"You okay?" Hayes asked.

"What day is it?"

Hayes told her.

"Oh god," she said. "Oh god. Where are my kids?"

"Everything is fine," he said. "Everything is fine. There was some trouble back in Memphis. But your children are doing real good."

"What kind of trouble?"

"Well," Hayes said, lowering the window to blow out some smoke, "y'all might want to check into a hotel. Apparently, your house has got a few holes in it."