8 Addison

Thank god she'd had time to pick up the kids at school and get them settled before meeting up with Mr. Hayes again that afternoon. Addison felt terrible about lying to Sara Caroline that she had a late hot yoga, and then sneaking out the garage and down to the street to slip into this private investigator's black Mercedes. The car was an older model, but the interior was clean and cool and smelled vaguely of cigarettes and aftershave. He had on some old-school soul, something from an era that wasn't hers, and she thought she recognized Otis Redding. But when she'd asked as they made their quick getaway, out from Central Gardens and headed to the Country Club, he told her it was one of Johnnie Taylor's best albums. Taylored in Silk.

"I never heard of him."

"What?" Porter Hayes said, shaking his head, turning the car down onto McLean. "The Wailer? Johnnie Taylor?"

"Sorry."

He turned the music up slightly, and she noted the car was old enough to still have a cassette player. She hadn't seen one of those in ages. She'd been raised on mixtapes of her favorite bands back in high school and college. R.E.M. INXS. And god help her, some Hootie as well. Everywhere she went, there was fucking Hootie.

"Tell me more about this Jimbo Hornsby."

"More than he's just some high-paid attorney and on the Club board?"

"Yeah," Mr. Hayes said. "Need to know a little more as we're going to be getting all up into his personal business. Maude Herron and all that."

"He's got a lot to explain," Addison said. "But I really think he'll be a huge help. He and Dean are really close. Jimbo and his wife, Chris, are very active on the social scene. I don't think they miss a fundraiser. Le Bonheur. MISA foodbank. Dean and Jimbo are both in the Secret Order of Boll Weevils."

"The secret what of what?"

"It's a men's club in the Cotton Carnival," she said. "Every spring, all these doctors and lawyers and business guys dress up as boll weevils. You know, the insect?"

"Sure," he said. "My daddy grew up picking cotton."

Addison's face flushed, but she swallowed and tried to keep straight on the story. "Jimbo and Dean have these insect costumes with crazy green legs and antennae and stuff. They have an old fire engine and drive around to these poor neighborhoods to hand out toys and food. It's pretty crazy, and they do stay more or less drunk all week, but it's for a really great cause."

Mr. Hayes didn't seem to be impressed, nodding along to her story before asking, "You and your husband go to lots of these fundraisers?"

"I know it sounds ridiculous," she said. "But it makes me feel like I'm doing more with my life."

"And Dean?"

"I think he likes giving back, too," she said. "He also thinks he looks like hot shit in a tuxedo."

Mr. Hayes nodded and turned down Southern and on toward the Club. Her stomach felt a little funny about the idea of her strolling into the clubhouse with Porter Hayes. It wasn't because he was Black or that the Club had just admitted women into the bar ten years ago. It had more to do with the shame that people already knew about Dean. Maybe they'd been gossiping and talking about some love nest Dean had and how poor Addison McKellar was dumber than dog shit for being so late to catch on. Maybe she'd find Dean sitting right there in the dining room sharing an afternoon cocktail and a steak sandwich with his new girlfriend, already introducing her around. No. Dean wouldn't do that. He was too concerned about his image and reputation as a family man. That was on brand for Dean McKellar. To him, that image meant about as much as his time in the army. A captain in the first Gulf War. His work for a Fortune 500 firm in Manhattan. Coming to Memphis to build a major company.

"There's a few things you should know, Miss McKellar," Mr. Hayes said. "McKellar Construction doesn't exist."

"Not now?"

"Not ever."

Addison felt all the breath go out of her and her mouth go dry. She just stared straight ahead at the road as she listened, trying to think how pretty Memphis could be in the fall. All the leaves sprinkled across the road, the late golden light across the old houses with barrel tile roofs and thick iron gates promising twenty-four-hour security. Her mind was a rush and completely blank. What the hell was Mr. Hayes even saying?

"As far as I can tell, your husband hasn't had a contract for nearly seven years," Mr. Hayes said. "He and his partner worked on a shopping mall in Collierville in 2003 and then an office building in Nashville. After that, one of your husband's companies filed for bankruptcy. I also don't think y'all have paid your taxes for years."

"None of that make sense," Addison said. "He gets up. He goes for a five-mile jog. Every damn day. He shaves and showers then goes to work or flies to a job site. He makes money. We have a lot of money, Mr. Hayes."

"Did you know he's listed as a principal of at least four different corporations in the state of Tennessee?" Hayes asked. "And three in Florida."

"The only business Dean has in Florida is when we take the kids to Disney," she said. "And he really hates Disney. Especially Epcot. He spends half his time checking his phone and excusing himself to take a call. He'd much rather take our annual trip to Mustique where he can really relax without so much noise."

"He also owns a lot of property in the Panhandle."

"Well, we do have a home in Rosemary Beach."

"This is rural property north of Pensacola," he said. "Three hundred acres. Give or take an acre."

Addison let out a long breath. This was a lot of information to process in one day. She'd wanted to find Dean and get him home safe. She had never given a crap about Dean's business. As long as she kept the home fires burning, he did what Dean McKellar was always good at. Making money and providing for his family. Cadillacs, trips to the Caribbean, Christmas card pictures in khakis and white dresses along the beach dunes.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. McKellar," Mr. Hayes said, turning into the parking lot by the clubhouse. "I know this is a hell of a lot to take in."

"I just want to find Dean," she said. "I don't really care about all this other stuff."

"But, ma'am," Hayes said, "this other stuff is how I get to the center of the Tootsie Pop, if you get what I'm saying."

"I do," she said. "The wise old owl and all that."

"Yeah," he said. "That wise old owl sure knew his shit."

Mr. Hayes parked his Mercedes and Addison crawled out and took a deep breath. The big oaks shed leaves that flickered down onto the asphalt. Out on the eighteenth hole, three men stood on the putting green in visors and sunglasses, laughing about one of them missing an easy shot. On first glance, she thought one of them might be Dean, he looked so goddamn interchangeable with most middle-aged white men in Memphis. Same sandy brown hair, stubble on his jaw. The polo shirt, the stock golf pants, the easygoing cocky mannerisms.

When she walked around the back of the Mercedes to join up with Mr. Hayes, she saw Jimbo Hornsby loading his clubs into the back of his massive Expedition. Son of a damn bitch. He'd promised to meet her and Mr. Hayes at the bar and talk about Dean's disappearance. Now his chunky fat ass was trying to hop in his SUV and ghost her. No fucking way. Addison called out his name, and Jimbo turned, a friendly grin on his pudgy face. Yes, you had to be fat with a name like Jimbo Hornsby. He was on the requisite fried-chicken-and-bourbon diet that old frat boys seemed to love.

She and Porter Hayes walked up to the Expedition.

"I thought we were meeting for drinks?"

"Sorry, Addy," he said. "Something real important came up."

"More important than Dean going missing?"

She looked to Porter Hayes, standing next to her in his vintage leather jacket, high collared with big leather buttons. Mr. Hayes raised an eyebrow as Jimbo started to laugh. "Let's not get dramatic," he said. "Dean's in Europe. He told me he wasn't going to be home until the end of the month."

Addison felt her face flush. She shook her head. "That's complete bullshit," she said. "Why would you say something like that? And by the way, who the fuck is this Maude Herron woman who cooks your books and answers phones for you? I bet Chris would like to know what you've been up to while she's out trying to raise money for kids at the Ronald McDonald House."

Jimbo smiled and laughed some more, putting up a hand like he was signaling to a dog. He looked to Mr. Hayes like Can you believe this crazy woman? "Down, girl," he said. "Down. Come on. I knew you were going to be like this, and that's why I wanted to go the hell home. I can't get involved in one of your and Dean's fights. I've been there before, Dean sleeping on my couch, you crying to Chris. We both agreed we want no part this go-round."

"What the fuck are you even talking about?" Addison said. "Who are you?"

"Addy. Addy."

Mr. Hayes stood there stock-still, checking out Jimbo's silly-ass madras pants and orange UT golf shirt. His brown hair was still wet, either from a shower or sweat, and combed straight off his florid and bloated face. Jimbo looked to Mr. Hayes and just sadly shook his head. C'mon, man. You know what it's like dealing with women.

"Mrs. McKellar filed a missing persons report with Memphis Police yesterday," Mr. Hayes said.

"You did what?" Jimbo said.

Hayes held up the flat of his hand to shut up Jimbo, and Jimbo did as he was told, that stupid cocky grin fading off his face. The madras pants were even more ridiculous up close, reminding Addison of the cover of The Preppy Handbook she owned as a kid, thinking that kind of dress was completely normal and cool. Maybe back in 1985, but now it looked like some kind of Halloween costume.

"You and Mr. McKellar share an off-the-books answering service down in Southaven," Mr. Hayes said. "It's run by an ex-con named Maude Herron. She said you'd set up Mr. McKellar with the service. That woman has been posing as Mr. McKellar's personal secretary for the last year."

"Last two years," Addison said.

"I have no idea what y'all are talking about," Jimbo said. "This is harassment and trespassing. Who the hell are you anyway?"

Mr. Hayes stepped up and got nose to nose with Jimbo Hornsby, blowing out a stream of smoke as he did. "Me?" he asked. "I'm goddamn Porter Hayes."

"Ha," Hornsby said. "You're Porter Hayes? The Porter Hayes?"

"The one and only, Jim-bo," he said. "And you're supposed to be a friend to this fine couple. How about you man up and tell the woman what she needs to know? Where is her husband?"

"Man up?"

"Yeah," Porter Hayes said. "You heard me. Or do you want me to pass on the news about your little answering service to the detectives looking for Dean McKellar?"

"Oh, come on, both of you," Jimbo said. "No one is looking for Dean, because he's not missing. This is another one of Addison's stupid mental breakdowns and she wants us all to be pulled into it. I'm sorry, Mr. Hayes. This isn't what you think. This is a domestic situation that has gotten out of hand. You also might want to consult with her shrink. It appears she's out of her pills. If you check with the management of the Club, you'll find out they're on strict orders not to serve her alcohol."

Addison had never, ever heard Jimbo talk like this. It was like meeting a completely new person. He was always fun and gags, hands full of big sloshy bourbons and dirty jokes and asides about his crazy legal cases. He was looking at her with scorn and mock pity, shaking his big, fat head like he was so sorry for her. She couldn't even look up at Mr. Hayes. Addison could hear her blood rushing in her ears and had to clench her hands together to stop herself from slapping the ever-living shit out of Jimbo. How the hell did he know that she talked to a therapist or took medication?

"Addison, the only reason you're still a member here is because I fought for you when the board wanted you kicked out," Jimbo said. "You assaulted a member during his own birthday party."

"The fucker grabbed my sister-in-law's tit by the bathrooms," she said. "He assaulted her. Does me mashing a piece of goddamn birthday cake in his face constitute assault?"

"In the state of Tennessee?" he said. "Yes. It does."

She looked to Mr. Hayes. Mr. Hayes shrugged.

The day was so goddamn pretty and golden, with the smell of the freshly cut grass, the ticker tape of oak leaves through the soft, hazy light. This was the kind of day where Addison should be poolside with a tall cold drink, gossiping with Libby or, god forbid, Chris Hornsby. But instead, she was being insulted, called crazy, and listening to a bunch of half-truths and outright lies about her own marriage.

"Jimbo," she said, jabbing an index finger into his fleshy chest above his big stomach, "Dean has not called home in an entire week."

"That's on you, Addy," he said. "Maybe you should treat him better."

She couldn't clench her hands this time and slapped the ever-living shit out of him. It was a hard thwack across his face, leaving a sweltering mark on his jowls. It felt good and a little terrifying. She raised her arm to do it again, but Mr. Hayes gently held her hand back.

"You saw that," Jimbo said. "You saw that. She attacked me. She jumped me here in the parking lot and assaulted me."

Mr. Hayes let go of her hand and then took a long, hard look at Jimbo Hornsby. A group of three of four members had gathered by the entrance to the Club to watch. Two of them had those same fucked-up madras pants on and one of them wore a silly-ass visor. As her dad always said, either wear a hat or don't. A visor is completely noncommittal. God. Daddy would hate these fucking people. There had been a time that he'd wanted to be a member here, and he tried. But year after year they'd turned him down. The Club wasn't a place for a man whose parents were born in Lebanon and had the last name Hassan.

"What's your real name?" Mr. Hayes said.

"Jimbo."

"Christian name."

"Melvin James Hornsby."

"Yeah, I'd probably go by Jimbo, too," Mr. Hayes said. "Here's what I think, Melvin. I think you definitely know where we can find Dean McKellar, but you're refusing to tell his wife."

"You don't understand the situation here, man," Jimbo said.

Porter Hayes glared at him. "Mr. Hayes."

"Huh?" Jimbo said.

"I'm not your man," he said. "Call me Mr. Hayes."

Mr. Hayes turned to Addison, who had her arms wrapped around her midsection, fighting hard against the urge to slap Jimbo again. He smiled at Addison.

"I know my client," Mr. Hayes said. "How about you?"

Jimbo didn't answer. He turned to the open hatch of his Expedition and pushed the close button, the hatch slowly locking down into place.

"I know you and your reputation," Jimbo said. "I'll warn you. If you want to keep it, I'd keep far away from this woman. She's not mentally stable or in any condition to talk about her husband. Who, by the way, is an honest-to-God American hero and one of this city's most successful businessmen."

"Even after three bankruptcies?" Mr. Hayes asked.

Jimbo's fat cheek twitched a bit. The men from the canopied entrance to the Club started to walk to where they stood by the SUV. One of them called out to see if Jimbo was okay. "Fine, fine," he said. "I'm just leaving."

The little white man in the visor announced he was calling the police and pulled out a cell phone, staring right at Porter Hayes as he talked. Addison heard the words, Black male in leather jacket. Mr. Hayes just shook his head and smiled.

Jimbo Hornsby crawled in behind the wheel and started to back out. As he did, Porter Hayes knocked on his window with his knuckles. The SUV stopped and the glass went down.

"Tell your friend, client, butt buddy, whatever he is, that I will find him," Mr. Hayes said. "And while you're at it, you might explain the legal context of abandonment."

"This isn't your world, Mr. Hayes," he said. "You need to realize. No one, and I mean no one, here will talk with you."

"Oh, yeah?" Mr. Hayes said, glancing back at Addison and winking. "One thing you need to realize, Melvin. To quote the late, great Joe Tex. One monkey don't stop no show."

The backyard pool used to scare the hell out of Addison when the kids were small. Just the thought of them wandering the edges and toppling down into it made a pit form in her stomach. The pool, the stairs, the electrical outlets, the front door, the bathtub, an uncut grape—death lurked in everything with toddlers. Now that they were older, and she prayed less reckless, she didn't need to stand guard every damn second and could actually sit on her ass with a drink. It was dark now, the Chinese takeout long gone, and she was poolside with Libby, both reclined in loungers. Addison leaned up and offered her big empty wineglass to Libby. Libby refilled.

"What a dick," Libby said.

"I know," Addison said. "And here I thought Jimbo was our friend. He told Mr. Hayes I was mentally unstable and that I was always causing problems at the Club"

"That's bullshit," Libby said.

"I know," Addison said. "We only occasionally cause problems."

Libby raised her wineglass and clinked it with Addison's.

It seemed like every room in her house was lit up, a giant glowing box that deceptively implied a lot of activity. But inside it was cold and silent, only the television playing the new season of American Idol, Sara Caroline curled up on the couch. Preston was upstairs doing whatever it was that Preston did at night. Playing Nintendo, working on Legos, checking out naked pictures of girls on the internet. She'd already caught him twice after checking his browser—women with ginormous breasts and shaved privates—and now he was afraid she could read his mind.

"It was like I was talking with a completely different person," Addison said. "Do you know he's Preston's damn godfather?"

"That's a mistake right there," Libby said, taking a big pull on a joint. "I wouldn't let Jimbo and Christie take care of goddamn ChaCha. No offense, ChaCha."

ChaCha trotted up after hearing his name and pawed at Addison's leg. She rubbed his ears. Content, the dog went back to sniffing around the pool, seeking stale potato chips or old charred meat that had fallen off the grill.

Libby tried to pass the joint to Addison, but Addison waved it away. Not that she was a prude or anything. She had too many problems to figure out, and being high wouldn't help. The last time she and Libby had gotten high down at Rosemary Beach, Dean had been so fucking pissed. He called her an unfit mother, which led to a mournful late-night walk on the beach, lots of stupid tears, and a half-hearted apology from Dean the next day. All had turned out well with a brand-new pair of diamond earrings.

"Fucking Jimbo knows where Dean is," Addison said.

"Maybe," Libby said. "But why would he make up that stuff about you? You are crazy. But only crazy in the best of ways."

"Thanks," Addison said. "Men do stupid things for their so-called honor system. I'm sure it's some woman. How dumb do I look for not noticing?"

"You're not dumb," Libby said. "You're the smartest person I know."

"Really?"

"Well, I don't know many smart people," Libby said. "Still. You're top of the list."

"I agree," Addison said. "I have to be honest with you, Libby. I'm not weepy about it. I'm over it. I'm over Dean. I'm over this marriage. I'm over the whole goddamn thing. I just want to know where we stand so I can get on with the rest of my goddamn life. I feel like I've been in some fucked-up limbo since college. Jesus. I can't believe it's been almost twenty years. Fuck. It seems like the kids were just born."

"Like sands through the hourglass."

"Ha ha," she said. "Especially when every day feels pretty much the same. Take the kids to school. Have just enough time to work out and maybe do some shopping. Lunch with you if I'm lucky. Pick up the kids, run them all over town to whatever activity, make sure they're fed, make sure they do their homework, make sure they take a bath and brush their teeth and go the fuck to sleep and then wake up and repeat."

Dark clouds bloomed far in the distance, grumbling with thunder. The wind picked up, blowing about her magnolia trees and little Japanese maples at the edge of the backyard. Everything was arranged so perfect and lovely in the elegant landscape lighting. The grand old Tudor with all the stately stonework and the beautiful pool. The playhouse she'd always wanted, set up high on the hill. The old house had been a mess when they'd first bought it, the property tied up in a bankruptcy. Dean got it for a steal. She recalled running up the hill and inside like Natalie Wood in Miracle on 34th Street, half expecting to find old Kris Kringle's cane by the mantel but instead finding a bottle of Dom that Dean had bought. Sweet, sweet heroic Dean to the rescue, knowing her deepest darkest childhood desire, to live in Central Gardens in a grand old house with so many ghosts.

"Can you really blame him?" Addison asked.

"Excuse me?"

"For walking away from all this," she said. "The house, the wife, the bratty kids, the constant renovations, the stuff, all of it, when you could just leave and start over. You get married and then all you do is start collecting shit. You buy a big house and then need to fill it. You have kids and start needing lake homes and beach homes. And then the right dress clothes to make sure you look the part at Second Pres on Sunday morning. You get the right bracelets and earrings. Did you know Dean collects vintage watches? He must have a dozen of them, and every single one costs a fortune. It's sick. We'd need a goddamn dumpster to get rid of all the crap we don't need."

"You really believe Dean just wants to start over?"

"You should've seen Jimbo's fat face," she said. "I'm absolutely sure of it."

Addison looked up at the clouds starting to blossom with lightning and then back at the empty house. She pushed herself up from the lounge and passed her empty wineglass to Libby.

"Listen, I probably shouldn't mention this, but be careful what you say to your brother," Libby said. "He's been acting even more strange than normal. I've been checking his phone to see if he's heard from Dean, but there was nothing. That doesn't mean they don't talk. So I just asked him straight out and he denied knowing anything. He just made a bunch of excuses for Dean being AWOL."

"Sounds like Branch."

"But two days ago, Branch wired ten thousand dollars from our account into a bank in the Cayman Islands," she said. "When I confronted him about it, he stormed off and accused me of spying on him."

"Branch doesn't know shit about the Cayman Islands."

"I know," Libby said. "But Dean sure does. Watch your back, Addison. Don't trust anyone."

"Not even you?"

Libby drank down the last of the wine and then looked to Addison. "You can always trust me," she said. "I'm the most trustworthy bitch in this whole damn city."

By the time Addison walked back inside the house, the television over the mantel was off, and only a few lights remained on in the kitchen. She set the empty wineglasses and bottle in the sink to find a handwritten note tucked just below the window. We can smell your stinky weed all the way in here.

A little of Sara Caroline's handiwork. Addison removed the note, tore it up, and tossed it into the trash. The floors and cabinets were still draped in plastic sheeting and crinkled as she walked. Thunder outside rattled the glass in the bay window as she watched Libby's G-Wagen heading back down the long driveway. Addison locked all the doors, checking the front door twice, and took the grand staircase from the foyer upstairs. She knocked three times, but Sara Caroline refused to answer her door although Addison could hear her giggling on the phone. She then tried Preston, and he was already tucked into his bed, the twinkly Christmas lights that covered his bookshelves glowing in the darkness. Dozens of action figures lined the shelves, Godzilla and Transformers, Star Wars figures, and the little matchbox cars that she used to buy at Kroger every time they made it through the aisles without toddler Preston throwing a fit.

Leaving her without a word was bad enough. How the hell could Dean leave the kids too? There had always been something emotionally remote about Dean that she'd chalked up to him being in the army. He never really showed a lot of joy or a lot of sadness. Dean used to say Addison's excitement over everything was enough for one household and that he'd been brought up to keep things to himself. He said his dear old dead dad always said emotions were a feminine trait, and Addison responded that she was pretty sure he meant "human," but that had started a whole thing.

She sat down beside Preston and smoothed the hair from his closed eyes. She wondered how long she could keep all this from the kids. Sara Caroline was hardened enough to catch on quickly and would most definitely blame her mother. But Preston would be crushed, finding a way to blame himself for Dean disappearing.

There was more thunder outside, the big old house shaking and the windows rattling from the incoming storm. Preston stirred as Addison stood up and walked into her bedroom, again checking her phone for any messages. She changed into some oversize sweatpants and one of Dean's old army tank tops, ChaCha whimpering from the thunder and trailing behind her into their deluxe bathroom. All marble with a tub that was more like a small pool and a walk-in shower with four different types of heads.

As she stared at herself in the mirror and began to brush her teeth, ChaCha started barking and ran off downstairs. Stupid dog. He'd already been out two times and had been sitting by the pool with her and Libby for the last two hours.

Now he was downstairs barking loud enough to wake the dead. Good god. When would this day end? She thought about that old Calgon commercial from when she was a kid, the woman sighing Calgon, take me away! and soaking all her troubles away in a big bathtub, transporting herself to an acid dream of the Garden of Eden.

Addison was halfway across the bedroom when she heard ChaCha yelp.

She reached for her phone and then went straight into Dean's closet for the shotgun on the top shelf. Dean was insistent that it be kept there, loaded, all the time, even against her protests. He was always getting on her about arming the alarm system and not going off their grounds during the night.

She rooted up and around a folded stack of Dean's work pants and T-shirts and found the stock of the shogun. If this was Dean's idea of a homecoming, she could scare the ever-living shit out of him. He couldn't just disappear and then waltz back into their home in the middle of the night. She checked the shotgun load, snicked it closed, and then descended the staircase around the great chandelier and down onto the cool of the marble landing.

ChaCha had stopped barking and trotted in to see her as if nothing had happened, panting heavily and trying to get up under her legs. Addison didn't say anything, but followed the hallway, switching on the lights as she went, past Dean's study and into living room, heading back toward the kitchen. She could see the dull gray glow in the kitchen and the rippling of the plastic sheeting against the floor. The sound of the dry wind got louder and she could hear the screen door slamming over and over against the frame.

Addison took a deep breath and lowered the shotgun.

"Goddamn you, ChaCha," she said.

That's when she felt a thick, sweaty arm reach around her neck and heard a voice whisper into her ear. "Drop the gun and do as I say and no one gets hurt."

Not very original, but she did as the voice told her. Dean's shotgun clattered to the floor. She felt her heart race and her bladder went a bit loose.

"Will you be a good girl?"

Addison tried to nod with great difficulty. She felt her oxygen being cut off.

"What the fuck is all this?" the man asked.

"A renovation," Addison said, croaking and barely audible.

"Renovation?" the man said. "Huh. Just countertops or the whole deal? How much is that going to set y'all back?"

"Fifty thousand."

"Fifty thousand," the man said, his voice very rough and rural. "Whoo-wee. Ain't that something? It's no business of mine. But someone sure is cornholing you folks. You can do synthetics that look just as good. There's this shit I used at my place called Silestone that looks amazing. Y'all should check it out."

Addison attempted to nod. ChaCha wandered into the kitchen and stared directly at them both. The damn dog tilted his head, and the man loosened his grip on her neck.

"Don't make no noise."

"I won't."

"Is your husband upstairs?"

"Yes," she said. "He's got a big-ass AR-15 ready to blow your fucking nuts off."

"Ha ha," the man said. "Bullshit. You really know where he's at?"

Addison didn't answer.

"I've been tracking his sorry ass halfway across this godforsaken earth," he said. As the man stepped back, she noticed he had a hook for his right hand. He was a big, brushy-bearded guy with a ruddy face and greasy hair.

"If you play straight with me and get his ass on the phone," he said, "me and you is straight. There's no need for me to snatch you up, take you with me, and do the whole kidnapping shit show. I seen it before and it ain't of any interest to me. I don't care at all for your husband, but he does know an ugly situation when he hears one."

"Mind if I sit?"

"Be my guest."

"Please don't harm my kids."

"Oh, come on, now," he said. "I don't mess with no kids. What kind of man do you think I am?"

"A man who broke into my kitchen and tried to strangle me?" she said. "Why are you here?"

"To get straight with your husband."

"Oh," Addison said. "Did he screw you over too?"

She sat down in the dark at the head of their breakfast table. The man walked over to their big Sub-Zero fridge and started rooting around. He pulled out a loaf of French bread, some turkey she'd had cut at Whole Foods, sliced Swiss cheese, and a squeeze bottle of country-style mustard.

"You have a name?" Addison asked.

"Yep."

"Are you going to tell me?"

"Nope," he said, standing against the kitchen island. He began to slice through the bread loaf with her longest and sharpest knife. "You said he done screwed you over too? What's that mean?"

"It means he disappeared."

"From his wife and family?" he said. "Ha ha. Don't that beat all."

"No, it doesn't."

"Doesn't what?"

"Beat all."

"Well, I ain't no marriage counselor and don't give two horse-size shits about your problems, lady," he said. "I come here for your husband and to get straight and see if we can't come up and make a deal. If not, I'm going to make y'all's life a true and authentic living hell."

"You're too late," Addison said. "He's fucking gone. You're going to have to stand in line."

The man didn't answer. His ugly, paunchy bearded face was shadowed in the soft light of the kitchen while he ate the enormous sandwich. They were silent for a good long while, with Addison at their breakfast table and the man at the island until Preston walked in rubbing his eyes. He stopped cold and looked at the big man and then his mother. His eyes grew wide and he froze with fear.

"It's fine," Addison said. "It's all fine. Please go back to bed."

The man set down his sandwich and walked over to Preston. He got down on one knee like an understanding Little League coach. "Did we wake you up, big man? Sorry about that."

Addison looked to the kitchen floor where she'd dropped the shotgun. She started to stand and make her way toward it. The man got to his full height and picked up the long knife he had used for the bread. It shone bright as he twisted it in his hands. "Made in Japan. Damn. I bet this is as sharp as a samurai sword."

"Go back to bed, Preston."

"Naw," the one-armed man said. "He can stay right here."

"Mom."

"Go to bed," she said, nearly screaming it, and Preston turned and bolted from the room. The man shrugged, put down the knife, and picked up the sandwich. As he ate, the mustard spilled across his shirt.

"Don't y'all have any cold beer?"

"Get the fuck out of my house."

"Guess that means no."

The man swallowed and wiped his mouth on his shirt. "Here's the situation," he said. "You call the police or make yourself a pain in the ass and I'll be back. But I don't think that'll happen. I think you'll call up your husband on his secret phone and tell him I was here. He'll know exactly who I am and what he's dealing with and we can straighten out this raw deal man-to-man."

"Dean would never work with a man like you."

The man twisted his head, set down what was left of the sandwich, and tossed a piece of turkey up in the air. ChaCha snatched it and gulped it down. Addison felt like she couldn't breathe. Her heart was up in her throat somewhere.

"Who the fuck is Dean?"

"Dean McKellar is my husband."

"Dean Mc what?" he said. "Come on, lady. Your fucking husband is Peter Collinson, or didn't he tell you that on y'all's wedding night?"

The house alarm started blaring and the outside security lights flashed on. The man looked about, shook his head, and gave a long, hard stare at Addison. "And here I come to you being a man of reason."

He used the pinkie of his good hand to pry something loose from his teeth and brushed past her, knocking her flat on her ass, and went straight out the back door to the pool.

She called 911 and then called Mr. Hayes. "Hold on," he said. "I'm comin'."