Chapter Ten

Adele

"Ah, Adele! Ye've returned!" Ms. Ida, our full-figured, sixty-something-year-old housekeeper's round face splits into a beatific smile as soon as she spots me in the grand foyer of our stately home. She hurries toward me, her heavy footsteps echoing on the marble floor, to envelop me in her signature maternal hug.

The air smells, as ever, of wood polish and fresh flowers, mingling with the faint scent of Dad's cigars. As much as I hate to admit it, I've missed home.

In a thick Irish brogue, she gently chides, "Yer Pa's been worried sick over ye. I don't tink he's slept a wink in de past year."

"I left just a little over a month ago, Ida," I smile, feeling the warmth of her embrace seep into my bones.

"Aye, I know, but it feels like a whole year, child. Ye know he can't help bein' a worry wart, after everyting dat happened to his family . . . and yer poor ma and da."

Guilt lances through me, sharp and cold. My Dad may have lied about being morally upstanding, but nothing can take away the grief of him losing his family in a single day. And nothing should come between me and the only father I've ever known.

I nod, my throat suddenly tight. "I'm sorry, Ms. Ida. We had a fight, but I've come to smooth things over."

"Good on ye, child. Now what'll ye be havin' before lunch is done?" She proceeds to offer a range of snacks she has at the ready, her hands fluttering excitedly.

I have zero appetite, my recent debacle at work is all too fresh in my mind. Someone brought rum cake to work today and I must have overindulged because out of nowhere I'd gotten sick and thrown up in Doug's office. The bitter taste of bile still lingers in my mouth.

Terrified of catching something contagious, he'd immediately given me the rest of the week off to sort out whatever virus was plaguing me. Suddenly with so much free time and worsening guilt, I decided to take a cab home.

"I'm not hungry, Ida. I had a big breakfast this morning, and it's only after two." My stomach churns at the mere thought of food.

She shakes her head, her gray curls bouncing, clearly not having it. "I knew it. Dat's why ye've lost so much weight. Ye're not eatin' well. See?" She gently gathers my loose shirt in a hand so my small waist is obvious under my oversized shirt.

I smile, trying not to roll my eyes at her age-old mantra. It doesn't matter that my boobs and ass more than make up for my small midsection or that no matter what she feeds me, my waistline never changes.

"Okay, fine, I'll have scones," I concede, knowing it's easier than arguing. "Where's Daddy?"

"In his office waitin' for ye. He ran dere to wait de moment he spotted ye at de gates from de CCTV. Now ye know yer Pa. He'll act all aloof, but he was tearin' his hair out—what's left of it anyway, so be gentle wit' him," Ida cackles as she moves toward the kitchens, her laughter echoing off the high ceilings.

I stand for a moment, staring after her. Ida's knack for spinning reality has always been a constant in this house. Whether it was explaining away Dad's absences or interpreting scathing words as a sign of deep, unspoken affection, Ida seems unable to see or accept any other reality except that of a loving family. I've known for a while now that her perspective isn't always accurate, yet I can't resist wanting to see things through Ida's kind, rose-tinted perspective.

As I make my way to Dad's office, I find myself smiling despite the tension of the day. Her ideas about Dad's worry linger in my mind, painting a picture of a man anxiously pacing, sleepless with concern. It's a comforting image, one that Ida has always been skilled at creating.

As I walk through the familiar hallway, memories flood back: Running through these corridors as a child. The soothing sound of Dad's voice echoing off the walls as he carried on endless meetings with clients. The smell of his cigars always lingering in the background, even though he knew I hated it.

I remember how he would drop in unannounced during painful physiotherapy sessions, through my tough and dreaded Taekwondo lessons, and as I fumbled through violin class. He'd show up every time I felt like quitting, and suddenly, I'd want to try a little harder and be a little better for him.

I pass by the library, my only sanctuary, where I spent countless hours lost in books, escaping into worlds that both mirrored and were far removed from my own pain and isolation. The musty smell of old books wafts out as I pass, comforting and familiar.

When I reach his office, I pause, taking a deep breath before pushing the door open. Dad looks up from his desk. His receding hair, mostly faded with age to a cross between ginger and mousy brown, catches the light from the window. His hazel eyes light up as they take me in and the corner of his lips quirk up in a ghost of a smile as his gaze rakes over me.

Dad has never had an issue with my choice of baggy clothes. Quite the opposite, he seems to like it. Actually, there isn't any one of my choices he's kicked against—except for Chicago and the knowledge that I'd been secretly dating a bad boy. That seemed to torture him to no end.

Despite working from home, he dresses the same way on weekdays: an expensive tailored shirt rolled up at the sleeves and a waistcoat that masks a growing paunch. There's a half-smoked cigar between his fingers, the smoke curling lazily in the air.

"Adele," he says blandly. "Took you long enough."

I shrug, trying to appear nonchalant even as my heart races. "I didn't want to come at all, so don't push me, Daddy."

He smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "Alright. Maybe what I should say is that I'm glad you've come home."

We remain silent for a beat, simply staring at each other. I get the urge to go and throw my arms around him, a move he never returns but still makes him flush with pleasure. We both need it, but I stamp it out, fully resolved not to forgive him too easily.

He gestures to the seat opposite him. "Why don't you sit down?"

I remain standing, crossing my arms tightly over my chest. "I'm good here. You said you wanted to explain. So explain."

He sighs and gestures to the seat again. "Please, Adele, sit. This could take a while, and I want you to be comfortable."

Reluctantly, I sink into the chair, the leather cool and firm against my skin. I watch him as he relights his cigar, his movements slow and deliberate. Instantly, the pungent scent wafts through the air, a contrast to the complex aroma of pine and fruit when Dante smoked three weeks ago. I'd tasted it on him too. Sniffed it on my hair that night and remembered it every night after as I laid awake in bed, craving the impossible.

Pulling my thoughts from that dangerous path, my eyes scan the bright, airy room.

Multiple monitors take up an entire wall, displaying stock tickers and financial news, while leather-bound books and awards line the shelves on the opposite side. I used to love this room. The very few times Dad allowed me to come in, sit on his desk, and tell him about something I'd read. Now, it feels like a cage.

"Adele, I know you're upset with me. And you have every right to be," he begins, his voice soft. "I want to explain everything to you, but first, I need you to listen with an open mind."

"Why do you do it, Daddy?" I ask quietly, my fingers tracing the intricate patterns on the armrest. "All those years, I thought you, this . . ." I throw my arms out, gesturing to the room, "was all legitimate."

He leans forward, resting his elbows on the desk. "Legitimate is a subjective term."

I feel a rush of irritation, my jaw clenching. "Oh, come now. You and I know where the law stands. What you're doing is a crime, punishable by law."

"It depends on who's making the law," he counters. As he leans back on his seat and takes several puffs of his cigar, his eyes begin losing their softness.

My voice rises slightly, betraying my frustration. "There's only one entity capable of making laws, Daddy. One government. One moral code."

"Yes, I know I've brought you up to think like that. But now I'm telling you, it's not true. There's more than one—"

"Let me stop you there, Daddy." I put my palm up to interrupt him. "It wasn't you who taught me to think that way. That is how the world works."

His smile is cold, indulgent, and designed to make me feel about two inches tall. But that was before. Now, it just irritates me.

"The world you knew of, Adele, is different from the one I'm going to spell out for you in the next few minutes. But before I do that, I want you to remember that everything I've done, and everything I will do from here on out, is to protect you."

"Protect me from what?" I ask, my heart starting to pound. I expected regret. An explanation of how he derailed from the straight and narrow. How he got enticed into a life of financial crime and money laundering. I didn't expect him to be cold, detached, and unremorseful. "Protect me from who, Daddy?"

"From the kind of people I work with," he admits, the hardness in his eyes now becoming steely. "I work with powerful people. Together we make a very formidable unit. But that also means that I don't always have the freedom to make independent choices."

I shake my head, trying to process his words. "I fail to see how you engaging in an elaborate money laundering scheme protects me."

He sighs deeply, rubbing his temples. "It's not just about the money. There's more to it than you know."

"Then explain it to me," I say, my voice trembling, already fearing what he might reveal. "I want to understand. What are you trying to tell me?"

He looks at me for a long moment, then his tone takes on a sudden urgency. "Adele, look, you're not safe out there on your own. You really shouldn't have moved out of here. And you should never have gone to Chicago. Or at least you should have informed me well ahead of going there."

A chill settles in my bones, goosebumps rising on my arms. "What do you mean?"

"There are people who would do anything to get to you," he states calmly, and a part of me wonders if my dad has gone off the rails, his paranoia finally tipping him into a mental breakdown.

"Who are these people out to get me, Daddy?"

He stands and goes to the window, taking a deep puff of his cigar and staring out into the back gardens. "Do you remember the incident at Airydale Park?"

I absently finger the scar on my chest. I was only five, so I can't actually recall the incident. But I remember crying myself to sleep the night before another surgery. I remember the physiotherapy sessions, and I remember being homeschooled until ninth grade. And I have the scar to show for it, so yes, it's safe to say that I was there.

"Of course," I say. "It was a random attack by a crazed gunman. We just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time."

He closes his eyes for a moment as if gathering his strength. "It wasn't a random attack, Adele."

"What do you mean it wasn't random?" My voice comes out as a whisper. "Daddy?"

He opens his eyes and turns to me, and I'm shocked to see his face pinched with cold hate. "It was an assassination attempt. And it didn't happen in Airydale, or in Boston for that matter. You were in bed with your mother in Chicago when it happened. You were shot six times, your mother eighteen times. She shielded you with her body, taking most of the hits."

The world around me blurs as I try to make sense of his words.

Shot multiple times? In Chicago?

My mind tries to piece together fragments of memory, but all I get is the smell of old books mixed with the acrid stench of smoke, the copper taste of blood, a woman's screams, and a masked gunman. My dad told me those were nightmares.

Apparently, they weren't dreams. They were memories, and for some reason my dad had me doubting my own reality.

An unpleasant buzzing begins in my ears, the sound making me want to plug them shut, to run and find a dark silent room, but I need to know.

"But . . . but what about the playground incident?" I ask in a trembling voice. "It's on record. The June 14th Airydale attack."

"Yes, the Airydale events are true, and they did happen that year," he admits, his voice heavy with regret. "But you weren't one of the victims. You were in bed with your mother when the gunman came. My sister was killed that night, but by some medical miracle, you survived against all odds. And you continued to survive through dozens of surgeries. I had to protect you and hide the fact that you didn't die that night."

My eyes widen in confusion, my breath coming in short gasps. "Hold on. Wait a second. How can my mother be your sister? I thought my father was your brother, Joshua O'Shea?"

His fists curl, his face contorting with rage as he snarls, "Your father is not my brother."

His sudden vehemence puzzles me, and his use of present tense isn't lost on me. There's a swarm of questions in my head, hovering like angry bees, but somehow, this is the first that tumbles out of my mouth.

"If only my mother and I were attacked that night, what about the rest of our family? My father? Your wife? Your sons, Brody and Baswell? Were they also assassinated?"

He looks down, his face pale. "No, because they never existed. I was never married, Adele. I don't have a brother—well, none you know of. And I never had children—well, except for you."

"But . . . but that's . . . impossible." I sputter out a disbelieving laugh as my gaze flies to the photo on the desk . . . One of him, his wife, and two ginger-headed boys with toothed smiles, taken around eighteen years ago.

There are dozens of similar photos dotting the walls around the house and in photo albums. His sons' old rooms are still immortalized to this day. We cry and put lilies on their gravestones every year . . . It's just not possible.

But I look into the cold unrepentant eyes of Benjamin O'Shea, the man I call Daddy, and I see the gut-wrenching truth lining his weathered face.

It was all a big, fat, elaborate lie.

The magnitude of the deception and the mockery that my life has been suddenly floors me.

My chest feels too tight, my breath coming in short puffs as I continue to stare at him, shock slowly giving way to horror, rage, then disgust.

And then fear. Fear that I have no clue who this man standing before me is.

He leaves the window and comes toward me, and I immediately shoot out of my chair, screaming. "Don't you dare come near me, you crazy lying son of a bitch!" I grab the back of the chair, the only barrier between me and him, as my eyes dart around for a weapon.

He puts up both hands in a reconciliatory gesture, his face a mask of calm. "I understand how betrayed—"

"Betrayed? Betrayed!" I scream, tears gathering and falling in swift rivulets.

"—you must feel." He continues in that chilling tone as if I hadn't spoken. "But I promise you, there is a very good reason why it had to happen that way. I'll explain just as soon as you calm down."

Calm down? Is he for real?

"The fact I'm not trying to get your skin under my nails right now should inform you how calm I am!" I yell, my hands shaking. "So don't fucking push me, you fucking bastard."

"Adele, I can't talk to you when you're like this."

I try to force my voice to a lower octave, but it doesn't work. "Fine. Answer me one thing then. What the hell was I doing in Chicago the night I was shot?"

My dad returns to the window, and I breathe a little easier with the length of the room between us again. Still leveling those cold eyes on me, he says, "You were born and raised in Chicago."

That knocks the breath right out of me. My legs feel weak, and I grip the chair tighter to stay upright. "But my birth certificate states that I was born in Boston."

His slow head shake confirms my worst fears.

"Does my original birth certificate bear another name?" My voice comes out as a hoarse whisper.

He remains silent for the longest time, his gaze fixed on some point in the distance. When he finally speaks, his voice is barely audible. "Adele, just know that you're not safe out there. And you shouldn't ever go back to Chicago. Move back in with me. Please."

Suddenly, it's too much to take in. The room seems to spin around me, and I feel like I might be sick again.

"Move in with you? Are you fucking insane? I don't even know who the fuck you are anymore, Benjamin." I spit his name at him and get a flash of satisfaction when he flinches. But I need more than that. I need to hurt him.

"What? You're shocked you don't get to be called ‘daddy' anymore?" I wag my index finger, my whole arm trembling. "Ah-ah. Fuck that. You're not my father. You're the coward who's lied to me all my life. For all I know, you could even be the deranged psycho who killed my mother and stole me."

I see a crack in his composure as a sheen of tears turns his hazel eyes glassy. But instead of sick satisfaction, I only feel . . . guilty. I've never ever seen him cry before. But he's lied to me all my life, first about who he was, and now, this. The liar even went as far as creating elaborate fake identities of his wife and children just to deceive me.

So, I steel myself against softening toward him and turn my back to him, my entire body trembling. The buzzing in my ear has become a full-blown screeching of nails on a chalkboard.

"I need to get out of here," I whisper.

"Adele, please. There's much more I need to tell you." His voice cracks, a desperate edge creeping in.

"I've heard enough!" I yell even as my heart pounds with the need to run. "I can't take any more of this twisted, fucked up life."

As I walk out of the study, I see Ida. Tears are running down her cheeks, carving paths through her makeup. She was obviously eavesdropping. She looks distraught. But rather than being shocked, she looks angry.

Angry at me.

I can tell straight away that Ida knows everything and that she's on Benjamin's side. She has always been on Benjamin's side. My favorite book in middle school flashes before me, a ratty, dogeared copy of George Orwell's Animal Farm.

Ms. Ida isn't just our housekeeper. She's Napoleon's Squealer, a tool of manipulation and mental shackling.

Suddenly desperate to escape the tangled web of lies, I turn and hurry down the hall, my footsteps echoing loudly in the silent house

"Ungrateful lass, ye are," she calls after me. The hard edge and assertiveness in her voice stops me in my tracks. Ms. Ida has never spoken to me like that.

Ida continues in her thick Irish brogue, each word hitting me like a physical blow. "For de last eighteen years, we have lived for not'ing except to protect ye, Adele. Ye owe yer life to dat man in dere, and ye should show him more respect, if not gratitude."

The door opens and my father's voice floats to me, calm and controlled once more. "Let her go, Ida. It was never going to be easy to break the news, so it's only fair that we give her some space to process it."

And that was the final straw proving I'm not who I thought I was. I was a doted-on, sheltered child, and now I'm a hunted orphan who should be grateful to her protectors.

I break into a run, not stopping until I'm outside the house, the cool air hitting my flushed face. Then I take several deep breaths, trying to steady myself. The scent of freshly mown grass fills my nostrils, a stark contrast to the turmoil inside me.

Everything I believed about my past, my family—it's all unraveling. The only place I can go is where I call home right now . . . my best friend's house.

But as I climb into the backseat of the cab that's still waiting in the driveway, I can't shake the feeling that I'm heading into an even darker unknown. The leather seats creak beneath me as I settle in, the driver's eyes meeting mine in the rearview mirror with a mixture of curiosity and concern.

As the car pulls away, I watch the house—the only home I've ever known—grow smaller in the rear window. It looks the same as it always has, grand and imposing, but now it feels like a beautiful lie, a facade hiding ugly truths. I turn away, unable to bear the sight any longer, and face forward, steeling myself for my next steps.

If only I had a clue what those would be.