A/N: Thank you so much for all your comments and thoughts. I hope you'll keep sharing them. (And on another Addek note, I am still working on the next chapter of The Climbing Way, but I swear it's coming.)


Friday, 12:16 a.m.


The performance of her life? What does that even –

She looks up just in time to catch the phone he's tossed to her.

"Tell him to come over."

Her stomach twists. "It's – late," she falters.

"And yet … we've scarcely even started." The masked man pauses. "Text or call?"

"What?" Her head is too fuzzy to understand and when he takes a menacing step toward her she takes an automatic one back in return.

"Which would you normally do? Text him or call him?"

"Either. I don't know." Her heart is pounding.

They really want her to summon Mark to this house of horrors, to talk to him – in front of them?

If they don't kill Mark, then hearing what Mark has to say might just kill her.

Not to mention Derek.

Regret courses through her.

If we never get out of this….

"Are you waiting for an invitation?"

"No. Sorry." Her fingers fumble on the keys. "He, um, he might be asleep."

"I'll take my chances. Do it."

His tone brooks no argument and she finds herself texting Mark. Her voice is too likely to betray her on the phone.

The intruder extends a gloved palm; Addison hands him the unsent text for approval.

"'I'm home if you want to stop by,'" he reads aloud, then pauses. "Brief, and to the point. Fine. Send it."

She does.

The phone buzzes almost immediately.

What about Derek?

The intruder reads over her shoulder. "What about Derek?"

He sounds almost amused; she feels ill.

"He's, uh, he's asking – "

" – whether he went back to work?" Now the intruder definitely sounds amused. "A fair question."

"What should I – "

"Tell him he's asleep," the man says in a tone suggesting he's speaking to a particularly slow child.

Buzz. I'll be there in twenty minutes, tops.

Buzz. And answer the door this time, will you?

She can hardly breathe.

He's really coming.

The intruder is watching her; she's grown unfortunately accustomed to tracking the movement of his eyes.

"Here's how this is going to work," he tells her calmly. "We get you ready – "

She can't help shuddering at the we.

" – and you'll answer the door, and then you'll get rid of him once and for all."

"How do I …"

"I guess you'll have to use your feminine wiles."

The intruder takes a few steps forward until he's standing in front of her. With serious effort, she doesn't react. Then his leather-gloved hand lifts toward her; she flinches automatically, but he does nothing more than cup her cheek – the uninjured one.

Frozen, she waits for him to move. He just holds her like that for a moment, while she stands stiffly, hardly daring to breathe. Then he moves his hand slightly, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. She's shocked – and disgusted – to see his lips twist up into something like a smile.

Let go, let go, let go.

He does.

And then he clears his throat and turns to sift through the clothes he pulled from her closet.

When he approaches again, she shrinks back; with short annoyed movements he yanks her toward him, fingers biting into her arm, and pulls down the neck of her tee shirt to expose one bare shoulder.

She stands perfectly still, not wanting to encourage him in any way by resisting.

Then he's rifling through her second dresser drawer, retrieving a silky black bra and a lacy white one, examining them from all angles, including the labels.

"Nice," he says. "Very nice. No expense spared, I see. Only the best for you."

She presses her lips together, ignoring him as best as she can.

He's trying to rile you up. Just let him. Don't react.

She doesn't say anything, and then he's in front of her once more; she's frozen as one of his gloved hands dips clinically into the bunched up waist of her sweatpants.

"No panties." He raises an eyebrow. "What a surprise. What were your plans for tonight, exactly?"

"They're sweatpants," she says as calmly as she can manage. "My plan was to relax and go to bed."

"But first you were entertaining your friend."

"He was coming over to say hi, and it wouldn't have been a big deal – "

" - if we hadn't ruined your night?" He shrugs. "Sorry about that."

He doesn't sound sorry; she doesn't respond.

And then he's rifling in her top dresser drawer, pulling out a pair of silky black panties.

"You wouldn't want to not match," he says, sounding amused. He stands in front of her again, studying her in a way that makes her want to run.

Don't.

"Arms up," he says, as if talking to a child, and her mouth dries.

She doesn't move.

"You going to do it or am I going to make you do it?"

There's only one answer to that. She lifts her arms in the air and he strips off the tee shirt, tosses it aside, and then takes a step back.

"Nice," he says again, admiringly, his tone curdling her stomach with nausea, "I like a woman who takes care of herself."

She doesn't say anything; the instinct to cover herself is so strong it's almost painful, but she stays still, afraid to rile him up further.

He tosses the bra her way. "Put that on."

She does, with no small measure of relief.

Then he's handing her a top – a rather fitted and low cut satin top.

"It's going to look strange if I'm wearing this after midnight," she says tentatively. "Mark would expect me in sweats."

"Well," the intruder says, again in that tone suggesting she's remarkably stupid, "you're going to have put some makeup on that pretty face – a lot of makeup – so you need to be dressed to match. This isn't my first rodeo, sweetheart."

The shirt is long sleeved; when it's on, he inspects her covered wrists. "Perfect."

She's aware he's not going to leave, so she strips off her sweatpants herself, anxious to be finished with this humiliating endeavor and to keep whatever distance she can.

To her dismay, he doesn't hand over the panties, but instead inches them up her legs in a disturbing perversion of a lover; she grits her teeth hard so she won't cry.

"Here."

He hands her trousers – black cigarette pants she rarely wears; part of her dares to hope that Mark will find some meaning in that … but she doubts it.

Even Mark, who notices her so much, is hardly likely to see that.

Next from her closet: black pumps with four-inch heels.

"I don't wear shoes like that around the house," she says firmly, "they're not good for the floors. Mark wouldn't expect to – "

"I'll take my chances," he interrupts, grinning disconcertingly. "I want to see you in them."

She shudders.

But at least, finally, she's dressed, the added height from her shoes bringing her a few inches above the intruder's head.

In the bathroom, he sits on the white chaise lounge and watches her apply makeup. For the most part he leaves her alone, though he occasionally reaches out a hand to stroke one of her legs.

"Very nice," he says approvingly – nauseatingly – but it's true that foundation and carefully applied blush have hidden the growing bruise on her cheekbone. Eyeliner and illuminating shadow have erased some of the exhaustion from her eyes.

The fear, though. That's still there when she studies her face in the mirror.

Mark – are you going to see that?

"Do something with your hair," the intruder adds coolly. "It doesn't go with the outfit."

He's not wrong; the hair that was loose and straight is rumpled from their various scuffles, the top layer starting to frizz.

She dampens it and re-dries it with a round brush; she's afraid to heat the flatiron or curling iron in case he decides it's a weapon.

Finally, her hair as dressy as her clothes, she sets down the dryer.

"You look good enough to eat," the intruder declares and she shudders.

"What's taking so long?" Derek paces the few feet of kitchen wall available to him, trying to stop the instinctual tugging at his cuffed wrists.

"Why, you have somewhere to be?" The intruder barely looks up.

"If he hurts her …"

"You're not really in a position to bargain, are you, tough guy?" The man shakes his head.

"I swear-"

"Relax," the intruder cuts him off. "She's more useful in one piece."

"Useful for what?"

"Tell you what … your wife gets rid of that busybody Sloan when he shows up, once and for all … and we'll fill you in."

"When he shows up? Mark is coming over?"

"Dog with a bone … didn't you say that?"

"Yes, but – "

"Relax," the man says again, the word just as offensively incongruous as the last time. "Wifey plays her part right, and he'll leave in one piece too."

There's a noise from upstairs; his heart speeds up.

"What are they doing up there?"

"Shut up," the intruder says, with no particular severity.

Figuring he should save his rebellion for when he has more information; he obeys, just leaning back against the wall and trying not to vomit when he imagines what could be happening upstairs.

Addison … hang on.

He pushes her ahead of him downstairs with a none-too-gentle hand on her shoulder. She hears movement in the kitchen and then Derek is there with cuffed wrists and an expression of worried confusion.

He searches her face; she gives him a wobbly but perhaps passable smile.

I'm okay, she tries to tell him.

Her husband is in his shirtsleeves, top few buttons open, looking exhausted and worse for the wear by now with both sides of his face red and swollen, bruises growing; he's holding himself in a way that confirms her earlier suspicion that something was done to his torso.

The larger intruder gestures to her. "Move," he says, and she descends the rest of the stairs.

"Here's how it's gonna work," he continues. "You and your lapdog get the foyer and the living room. That's it. We'll stay in the kitchen … like this."

And he yanks Derek against him, cocked gun in his ribs; he can't seem to help a groan of pain.

"Please!" Addison cries.

The intruder ignores her. "You get once chance. Sloan knocks, you let him in, you talk to him, and you get rid of him. I don't care what you have to say … just do it. Stick to the plan and make sure he doesn't come back, or it'll be on your head when this one gets shot."

He thrusts the gun toward Derek again and Addison gasps.

"I'll do it," she assures him, voice trembling. "I will."

"Good."

"Addie, be careful," Derek whispers.

"Not another word," the shorter intruder snaps, suddenly reaching out to grab Derek's bruised face.

"Please don't hurt him!" Addison takes a step forward only to be shoved back.

"You want me to just shoot him now and get it over with? Is that what you want?"

She takes another shove before she answers.

Because her mind is starting to work.

"No," she says quickly, pretending she hasn't just realized something. "I'm sorry," she adds for good measure, and he nods.

And they all look up at the single gong echoing from the living room.

One o'clock.

Nineteen minutes since Mark texted.

Everything moves quickly, then; the two intruders move to the darkened kitchen, Derek between them with a weapon on either side of his abused body.

And then, right on time … there's a knock at the front door.

She draws a deep breath.

You can do this. You can convince him you're fine, you can protect Derek, you can …

Her stomach curdles at the thought of what he might say. But he'll think Derek is asleep, so they'll whisper … in the living room … .

Before she can anger the intruders, she pulls the door open, having to fight tears when she remembers this is how the night began.

Why weren't you there the first time? You're never late!

"Mark," she whispers when the doorway frames his familiar face. He's wearing his trademark leather jacket – except the smell of leather turns her stomach now, and maybe always will. "I'm sorry I worried you," she adds.

"Addison. Look at you." His gaze skims over her outfit. "That must have been some dinner." He smiles, but he looks preoccupied.

She tries to force a smile in return.

"You gonna let me in?"

"Yes ... of course, but Derek's sleeping."

"You said."

"And I'm tired, so…."

"Okay." He frowns a little. "You did tell me to come over."

Her heart pounds. Fix it, Addie. Fix it.

"I felt terrible that I wasn't here when you came by before," she says, forcing her voice to remain steady, "and you said you wanted to see me, so…."

"I did want to see you. I do." He ambles into the living room – has he always seemed so comfortable here?

She follows him, heartbeat so loud in her ears she's afraid she'll pass out.

What if he asks for something from the kitchen?

"Mark – "

He turns, eyes looking dark in the dim light of the living room. "I wanted to talk to you," he says slowly.

No. Please.

The idea of a beaten Derek having to hear Mark refer to the way she verbally betrayed him … no.

"Mark," she begins, desperate to stop him. "Listen, please, I – "

"I'm sorry," he says.

"You – what?" Now she's confused.

"It wasn't what you think," he says. He's searching her face and she needs an excuse to look away before he suspects something.

"I, uh, I don't really want to talk about this now," she says, her voice thin.

"Okay." He frowns a little. "We do need to talk about it at some point, though."

"I know," she says. "I just … I'm really tired."

"Yeah?" Mark cocks his head, studying her face. "Okay. I'll let you go, then."

"I'll just see you tomorrow," Addison prompts as she walks him to the door, praying he'll leave without incident.

And praying she really will see him tomorrow.

"Tomorrow. Right."

In the doorway he hesitates for a moment, looking at her. "Addie, are you sure you don't …."

His voice trails off.

"Good night, Mark," she says firmly, forcing the most genuine smile she can muster.

The door closes behind him with a solid thunk, cutting off her last hope for rescue.

She leans against the wall, needing its support, afraid to leave her designated area.

"Brava," the taller intruder sneers, clapping with audible sarcasm as he walks out of the kitchen. "Top notch performance."

The wall is shaking.

No – her legs are shaking.

The smaller intruder follows, shoving Derek ahead of him. "'I'll just see you tomorrow.' Nice touch."

A sudden daring seizes her. "Will I?" She asks.

"See him tomorrow, you mean?" The intruder pauses for a moment. "That depends on a few things."

Her heart thumps.

The taller one takes her by the arm; the smaller one kills the rest of the lights, peering through the glass panels, presumably to ensure Mark has left.

It's so dark she can't even see shadows.

"Johnson," a male voice says, and she has only a moment to think that can't be his real name before the lights flick back on.

And it's no longer just the four of them in the foyer.