Privilege- Chapter Seven: If I Were You and You Me

Addy and Frances did not speak for months after their fight.

This suited them both.

It did nothing, however, to discourage Emmet's strange devotion to Frances's future.

He applied the full weight of his money, reputation, and professional connections to securing her the sort of life Addy might once have killed for. By the end of it, Frances had a prestigious position waiting for her in beautiful Brazil.

Had circumstances permitted it, the sisters might have spent the remainder of their lives contentedly avoiding one another.

Instead, death brought them back together.

Not Frances's.

Not yet.

Mother Taylor died as she had lived in her final years:

Mostly forgotten.

The hospice facility called Emmet directly.

His immediate reaction was irritation.

He had specifically instructed them to contact his office.

Addy learned later that Emmet had visited his mother several weeks before her death, shortly after the ninety-year-old woman was transferred from her luxury senior residence into intensive nursing care.

The visit generated rumors.

Emmet had supposedly sat beside the woman who had supported him throughout his life and encouraged her to “stop fighting.”

To “let go.”

Whether the story was true, Addy never discovered.

It was certainly believable enough that no one seemed particularly interested in disproving it.

News of the funeral reached Addy through a Red Cross message.

She had been living peacefully at the lodge, ignoring Emmet and hoping he might eventually occupy himself by ruining someone else's life.

Part of her considered not going.

Curiosity changed her mind.

She wanted to see Emmet grieve.

More precisely, she wanted to know whether he could.

Addy arranged her own travel before his secretary had the opportunity.

She arrived in the city early enough that she would have only a few hours to tolerate Emmet and the revolving population of employees who maintained his life.

She entered her own house through the delivery entrance.

It was unlocked.

The codes and keys changed so frequently because of Emmet's extraordinary staff turnover that Addy had long ago stopped attempting to keep track.

A young maid spotted her immediately.

“This is Dr. Taylor's house!”

Addy continued walking.

“Excuse me?”

“You can't come in here!”

The girl hurried toward her.

“How dare you?”

Addy stopped.

The maid wore dark red lipstick, heavily overlined.

Emmet's preferred shade.

Addy almost smiled.

For one amused second, she wondered whether the girl imagined herself becoming the next Mrs. Taylor.

Impossible.

Emmet might humiliate his wife with servants.

He would never sleep with one.

In his private hierarchy of humanity, household staff ranked somewhere above livestock and considerably below anyone he would consider socially suitable for intercourse.

Another employee appeared.

Addy removed her oversized peacoat and pushed her hair away from her face.

He stared too.

Neither recognized her.

The absurdity almost delighted her.

“I'm Dr. Taylor's wife,” Addy finally said.

The words felt strange in her mouth.

“Adeline.”

Recognition slowly appeared on the older employee's face.

“Oh.”

He looked embarrassed.

“Mrs. Taylor.”

The maid went pale.

Apologies followed.

Addy waved them away and continued upstairs.

Being mistaken for an intruder in her own home felt strangely appropriate.

The master suite was freezing.

Addy crossed the marble floor.

Then stopped.

There.

Years earlier, she had collapsed on that exact spot, struck her head against the tile, and remained there until morning because she had been too miserable to move.

She looked toward the mirror.

A different woman looked back.

Her body was fuller now.

Healthy.

Her face no longer disappeared beneath layers of makeup. Fine lines had begun appearing near her eyes.

Very fine.

But present.

Addy smiled.

Perhaps Emmet would finally divorce her.

She no longer looked manufactured.

She looked alive.

That alone probably made her defective by his standards.

Emmet had never wanted beauty in the ordinary sense.

He wanted the unattainable.

Something other men could see but could not possess.

The point was not admiration.

The point was envy.

Without someone beneath him, Emmet seemed incapable of understanding where he stood.

Addy had spent years supplying him with that reassurance.

She was tired.

She dressed for the funeral in whatever remained in the closet that seemed appropriately somber.

Emmet had already left.

Addy had specifically asked him to wait.

Of course he hadn't.

She considered taking one of the cars but decided against it. There was no reason to provoke him unnecessarily on the day of his mother's funeral.

A hired car took her instead.

She arrived nearly an hour early.

Emmet did not greet her.

Not when she approached him.

Not when she stood beside him.

Not during the service his secretary had arranged.

His mother's coffin could have contained a stranger.

His wife might as well have been one.

Addy watched him carefully.

She had returned partly to see whether grief could make Emmet human.

Apparently not.

Afterward, Emmet informed her that Frances would be returning to the lodge.

He announced it over dinner with all the emotion of someone reading minutes from a meeting.

“I sold the condo.”

Addy looked up.

“What condo?”

“The one Frances was using.”

“You mean the one you were subletting to her?”

“Yes.”

He continued eating.

“The sale is closing sooner than anticipated. Renovations have to be completed before escrow.”

Addy already disliked where the conversation was going.

“So?”

“She'll stay with you.”

“No.”

Emmet looked up.

The word seemed to surprise him.

Addy surprised herself too.

“No,” she repeated.

Emmet set down his fork.

“She needs somewhere to stay until Brazil.”

“Then put her in a hotel.”

“I've already made arrangements.”

“You always have.”

His expression cooled.

Then came the next revelation.

He had bought Frances another condominium.

In Rio.

Oceanfront.

A gift.

Addy stared at him.

“You bought her a home?”

“It's an investment.”

“For her.”

“Yes.”

The old wound opened instantly.

Addy had begged Emmet for help returning to school.

No.

Starting a business.

No.

Developing anything resembling a professional life.

No.

Every ambition she possessed had been frivolous, embarrassing, unnecessary, inappropriate for his wife.

But Frances received surgeons.

Career placement.

Connections.

Housing.

Brazil.

A future.

Addy received an allowance.

And even that could disappear whenever Emmet wished.

He still held the ugliest cards in their marriage.

Money.

Reputation.

Medicine.

He had reminded Addy more than once that if she attempted to embarrass him publicly during a divorce, he could tell people she was unstable.

A prominent physician expressing concern about his depressed wife's mental health would sound compassionate.

Addy accusing that physician of systematically destroying her life would sound insane.

He knew it.

So did she.

Still, she refused to surrender immediately.

“You're rewarding her.”

“For what?”

“You know exactly what happened between us.”

“I know I'm tired of hearing about it.”

“She vomited on me deliberately.”

“Grow up.”

Addy stared.

Emmet leaned forward.

“You have one job.”

Something in his voice changed.

“Do you understand that?”

Addy said nothing.

“One.”

He lowered his voice so the staff couldn't hear.

“Shut up and look pretty.”

Her face went hot.

“I am sick of being around you and your constant pity party. You make yourself look pathetic.”

Addy stared at him.

“Just show up. Smile. Stop pouting. That's why you're my wife, and somehow you can't even manage that.”

Then something peculiar happened.

Addy thought of Frances.

Not Frances now.

Frances as a girl.

Quiet.

Awkward.

Forever being told that she had embarrassed somebody.

That she had spoken incorrectly.

Dressed incorrectly.

Behaved incorrectly.

Frances, who had learned that being permitted inside a family was not the same thing as belonging to it.

Addy suddenly recognized the language.

Emmet spoke to her the way the Madisons had always spoken to Frances.

For the first time, Addy understood something she didn't particularly want to understand.

Perhaps Emmet had made her the Frances of her own marriage.

The outsider.

The embarrassment.

The person everyone else agreed was the problem.

For one brief instant, Addy pitied her sister.

Then she looked at Emmet.

“I wish you respected me half as much as you respected Shannon.”

The effect was immediate.

Emmet seized her shoulders.

His fingers dug painfully into her flesh.

“Every time you open your mouth, you bring her name into my life.”

Addy stared at him.

There.

Something real.

“She has nothing to do with me.”

“Then why does it bother you?”

His fingers tightened.

“She was a fat warthog.”

Addy almost smiled.

Emmet saw it.

“Just like you're becoming.”

He released her abruptly.

“Is the never-made-anything-of-herself, has-been sorority girl satisfied now?”

His face had flushed.

For once, Emmet seemed aware that someone might have seen him lose control.

He stepped backward.

“I don't know where Shannon is. I don't care where she is.”

Addy said nothing.

“I heard the hag lives somewhere in Ohio.”

He waved one hand dismissively.

“Maybe I should send you there too.”

Then he walked away.

His hands continued moving as he left, pushing at the air as though attempting to physically shove the conversation away from himself.

Addy remained where she was.

Her shoulders hurt.

But she smiled.

Shannon.

There it was again.

For a woman Emmet supposedly didn't care about, Shannon possessed an extraordinary ability to make him lose control.

And Emmet Taylor was beginning to crack.

Frances flew to the lodge several days later.

Addy stayed in the city.

Emmet's long-running litigation had finally ended, and the cosmetic medical franchise he regarded as his legacy was preparing to open its flagship facility in his home state.

Naturally, Mrs. Taylor was required.

Addy resumed her old position.

Smile.

Stand.

Wave.

Be beautiful.

Say little.

She played the role as though she had never left.

Perhaps nostalgia made her return to the country club one afternoon.

Perhaps boredom.

Perhaps some embarrassing part of her still hoped that Emmet's outburst had represented intimacy.

He had shown her something genuine, after all.

Hatred was at least an emotion.

Addy ordered a cocktail.

Within minutes, Mary Weber-Reyes appeared.

Mary looked delighted.

“You're alive.”

“Apparently.”

“And back.”

“Temporarily.”

Mary sat beside her.

Then leaned close.

“You know he's been bringing a girl around here.”

Addy looked at her.

“Who?”

“Young.”

Mary lowered her voice.

“Sorority-looking.”

Addy felt something unpleasant move through her stomach.

“What does she look like?”

Mary studied Addy's face.

“Almost like you.”

A pause.

“But not quite.”

Addy took a drink.

Strangely, jealousy wasn't her first reaction.

Instead, she wondered whether Emmet was even capable of maintaining an affair.

Their own sexual relationship had become so infrequent that she genuinely did not know.

Still, being publicly replaced was different from being privately neglected.

The whispers returned.

The looks.

The little smiles.

Addy knew what people thought.

Poor Mrs. Taylor.

The discarded wife.

The pathetic one.

She remained terrified that openly challenging Emmet would give him the excuse he had threatened for years to use.

She's unstable.

She's depressed.

She's paranoid.

Who would a judge believe?

A melancholy housewife living alone in the wilderness?

Or Dr. Emmet Taylor?

The final insult came when Addy passed the reservation desk.

A waitress failed to notice her.

“I thought she finally killed herself.”

Someone laughed.

Addy stopped walking.

Then continued.

That evening, she decided she was finished with the city.

She didn't tell Emmet she was leaving.

She skipped the dinners.

The receptions.

The celebrations surrounding the monument to himself he called a clinic.

She didn't leave a note.

Before departing, Addy went into the garage.

Years earlier, she had hidden a bag there.

Clothes.

Cash.

A few personal things.

An escape bag.

She had never called it that.

Now she did.

No one met her when the charter plane landed near the lodge.

Addy stood on the tarmac with her luggage.

Frances had known when she was arriving.

Of course she hadn't come.

Eventually Addy walked several miles to McGlenn's and paid the delivery driver to take her home.

Home.

The word came surprisingly easily now.

Frances made it immediately clear that their previous fight had settled nothing.

The atmosphere became unbearable within hours.

Addy spent days taking long walks merely to avoid her.

Frances resumed her nights at the bar.

Drinking.

Men.

Coming home late.

Expecting Addy to retrieve her whenever convenience demanded it.

The sisters moved around each other like animals forced into the same cage.

Then winter came.

And Emmet appeared.

His visit was unexpected.

Emmet rarely traveled to the lodge without a specific reason.

This time, whatever the reason was, he did not share it with Addy.

He spent most of his first day with Frances.

Laughing.

Sitting close.

Touching her affectionately.

Addy watched from a distance.

She told herself she didn't care.

Then she went upstairs.

A gun was waiting on her vanity.

Addy stopped in the doorway.

It was enormous.

A Magnum Research BFR with a shortened barrel—so grotesquely oversized that it almost looked theatrical.

Beside it lay a pamphlet about euthanasia.

Addy stared.

For several seconds she couldn't move.

Then anger arrived.

Whose gun was it?

Emmet's?

Frances's?

Had one bought it and the other placed it there?

Was it supposed to be a joke?

A suggestion?

A threat?

Downstairs, Emmet and Frances laughed at something.

Addy looked again at the pamphlet.

Perhaps this was why Emmet had come.

The thought sounded paranoid.

The trouble was that Addy no longer trusted paranoia as evidence that something wasn't true.

She picked up the gun carefully.

The liquor cabinet had one lock for which she possessed the only key.

She put the weapon inside.

Locked it.

Then placed the key on her person.

The cabinet had been forced open by the following day.

Addy discovered the damage that morning.

Someone had known exactly where to look.

The gun was gone.

For most of the day, nothing happened.

Addy tried to convince herself the entire incident had been some grotesque prank.

That evening, she went upstairs to brush her hair.

The gun was back on the vanity.

Same place.

Same position.

Waiting.

Addy stared at her reflection behind it.

She had fired a gun only once, as a child, at the home of one of her father's former employers.

She remembered almost nothing about the experience except the recoil.

Someone had warned her not to let it strike her in the face.

Downstairs came laughter.

Emmet.

Frances.

Addy considered confronting them.

Then looked at the gun again.

For the first time, she was genuinely frightened of both.

She left it where it was.

That night she lay awake.

Sometime before dawn, Addy heard movement.

She got out of bed.

Emmet was downstairs wearing his Canada Goose coat and packing a small bag.

A sheriff stood near the entrance.

From fragments of conversation, Addy gathered that there had been an accident several hours away.

Multiple patients might require surgery.

Emmet was apparently the only qualified surgeon within a hundred miles besides Dr. Anderson—Dr. Ricky, as the locals called him—a physician with such an unfortunate history of patient outcomes that jokes about him had become part of the regional folklore.

The sheriff hurried Emmet out.

Addy never got the chance to mention the gun.

Then he was gone.

Leaving her alone with Frances.

All day, the sisters circled one another.

The temperature had fallen too low for Addy's usual walk.

By evening, she could no longer tolerate the house.

She took the SUV.

Frances could follow by snowmobile if she wished, but Addy knew the machine was nearly out of fuel.

McGlenn's was the only establishment open late.

When Addy entered, several men recognized her.

“The hot sister.”

Addy smiled despite herself.

Then she heard someone farther down the bar.

“Hot one's an icy bitch.”

Laughter.

Another voice answered:

“Yeah, but the ugly one's way too easy.”

Addy laughed quietly into her drink.

It was cruel.

She didn't care.

By then she knew Frances had developed an infatuation with one particular local man.

He was better-looking than most.

Married.

He kept Frances interested with the oldest promise in existence:

“If I weren't married, I'd be with you.”

Addy watched him from the corner of her eye.

An idea came to her.

It was petty.

Vicious.

Unnecessary.

That made it irresistible.

She waited until closing.

Then Addy resurrected every trick she had learned years earlier.

A glance.

A smile.

A touch held a second too long.

She wanted witnesses.

She wanted the story to reach Frances.

Eventually, she and the man ended up inside Emmet's SUV.

Addy felt almost nothing for him.

That wasn't the point.

When it was over, she drove back to the lodge.

She had done it for one reason.

To hurt Frances.

The gun was waiting on the vanity.

Addy stopped.

Emmet was gone.

The mystery, at least in her mind, was solved.

Frances.

Something cold settled inside her.

Enough.

She picked up the weapon.

Then walked toward the master bedroom.

Frances was already there.

In Addy's bed.

Pretending to sleep.

The low light softened her face.

Addy stopped beside the doorway.

For a moment, the resemblance was extraordinary.

The same outline.

The same proportions.

Emmet's work.

A counterfeit Addy sleeping in Addy's bed.

Something ugly surged through her.

It wasn't merely Frances's behavior anymore.

It was the face.

Her face.

Frances had permitted Emmet to carve away pieces of herself until she resembled the sister she had spent a lifetime resenting.

And neither of them had ever asked Addy how she felt about it.

Addy kicked the side of the bed.

Frances opened her eyes.

“I see you left me another present.”

Frances glanced at the gun.

No fear.

No surprise.

“Duh.”

Addy's grip tightened.

“Shoot yourself already.”

Addy stared at her.

Frances rolled her eyes.

“No one wants you around.”

Addy had intended to tell her about the man from the bar.

She wanted to watch Frances's face collapse.

Instead, Frances smirked.

Then rolled over, turning her back.

Dismissed.

In her own bedroom.

In her own house.

By a woman wearing a version of her own face.

Something inside Addy gave way.

She raised the gun as she shouted.

Frances covered her ears.

Addy shook the weapon at her.

Her hands were slick with sweat.

Her entire body trembled.

Then—

The gun fired.

The sound consumed the room.

Afterward came silence.

Absolute silence.

Addy stopped breathing.

Frances did not move.

For one impossible second, Addy's mind refused to connect the gunshot with the body on the bed.

Then blood began spreading across the bedding.

“No.”

Addy dropped the weapon.

“Frances?”

Nothing.

She stepped closer.

The shot had torn through Frances with catastrophic force.

There was no question of waking her.

No question of apology.

No second fight.

No tomorrow in which the two sisters could hate each other again.

Frances was dying.

Perhaps already dead.

Addy backed away.

“No.”

Her hands were wet.

There was blood on her clothes.

Her face.

She stumbled into the bathroom.

Turned on the shower.

Water struck her hair and skin.

She scrubbed.

Then scrubbed harder.

Nothing happening in her mind resembled thought.

She stripped off the bloodied clothing and carried it downstairs.

Into the fireplace.

Lighter fluid.

Flame.

She watched until the fabric disappeared.

Only after it was gone did she understand what she had done.

She had destroyed evidence.

Addy stared into the fire.

Frances remained upstairs.

No one was coming.

Less than two hours later, the front door opened.

Addy nearly screamed.

Emmet.

She ran toward him.

She would tell him.

Everything.

The gun.

The argument.

The shot.

All of it.

But Emmet barely looked at her.

He marched toward his room in the other wing of the lodge and began gathering his things.

“What are you doing?”

“Leaving.”

“What?”

“They don't need me.”

Addy followed him.

“I thought there were injured people.”

“Minor injuries.”

He shoved something into his bag.

“Even that bungler Ricky couldn't kill men with bruises.”

“Emmet—”

He walked past her.

“Emmet, I need to show you something.”

“I don't have time.”

“Yes, you do.”

She grabbed his arm.

He jerked free.

“I'm busy.”

“It's Frances.”

That finally earned a reaction.

Not concern.

Annoyance.

“I don't care how many times Frances left that stupid gun on your dresser.”

Addy went still.

Emmet continued packing.

“Get over it.”

Addy stared at him.

He knew.

He knew Frances had been leaving the gun.

“Grow a thicker skin.”

“Emmet—”

“I have a plane to catch before the weather turns. My time is money, Addy.”

He headed for the door.

Addy remained frozen.

Upstairs, Frances lay dead.

Emmet was leaving.

And suddenly Addy understood that she had a choice.

Perhaps the worst choice she had ever been offered.

“Can I come with you?”

Emmet stopped.

She forced herself to sound irritated rather than terrified.

“Frances is asleep. I don't want to fight with her when she wakes up.”

Emmet looked at his watch.

“Two minutes.”

Addy's heart hammered.

“I'll be in the car.”

He walked outside.

Addy stood alone in the entryway.

Two minutes.

Then she ran upstairs.

She did not enter the master bedroom.

She couldn't.

Instead, Addy grabbed her suitcase.

She left the rest.

The clothes.

The paintings.

The books.

The little private life she had constructed there.

Everything.

She hurried downstairs.

Outside, Emmet was waiting impatiently in the car.

Addy climbed into the passenger seat.

He pulled away.

She did not look back at the lodge.

Emmet said nothing.

Neither did she.

For perhaps the first time in their marriage, Addy was grateful for his complete lack of interest in anything she had to say.

The lodge disappeared behind the trees.

Upstairs, Frances remained in the bed.

And beside her lay a gun Emmet already knew she had been leaving for Addy.