Page 72 of Vicious Souls

Maddog had three versions of his will. The first, constructed when Kingsley would have been two or so, left everything to his wife and Kingsley, and any future children born jointly to Maddog and his wife.

He changed that will seven years ago. I paused on the seven years, trying to understand the significance of the date. I know what happened that year. I remember clearly. But why he would change the will, directing that my father received the waterfront, mystified me. I scroll down to the bottom of the document, search for the date, and realize it was signed and sealed almost two months after that thing that happened. He had known, for seven long years, that we would get the docks, but he’d slept on it. And why? Why would he just hand over what he refused to sell us, just like that?

Tate had been added as a recipient in the second will, which gave him a hefty cash payment and some property in Florida for his retirement. Maddog’s wife, long deceased, had been removed from that will.

The last and final version is the one in which Tate was cut off completely. Left without a single key to the kingdom he sought so hard to covet. Saul assures me that Tate had no idea what was in that will; Maddog had always insisted on conducting this sort of business away from his regular locations and not within the ears of anyone in his camp.

“The will is ironclad,” he assures me.

“That’s not what I’m worried about,” I tell him.

He looks at me curiously, a question in his eyes.

“He never told you why he made that change in his will and left my father the docks?”

Saul shakes his head. A lot of what Maddog did never made much sense, but he always had his own reasons for doing things.

I look down at the envelope in my hand, fold it and put it in my coat pocket. There are more pressing things to take care of at the moment. Maddog has left a letter to Kingsley, insisting she read it in the presence of my father and me when she is ready. The sheer weight of Maddog’s foresight, that my father and I would someday somehow find ourselves in a room together with his only offspring staggers me. I make a move away from Saul as he packs his bag and readies himself to leave.

“Let me know if Kingsley needs anything,” he says, squeezing my arm and giving me a tight smile.

Saul had made a good choice choosing a suite in one of Seattle’s more nondescript towers to go over Murray’s final wishes. I stride through the hallway until I reach the room where Kingsley lays, watch as Stella sits with her back to the door, chatting with her in hushed tones. From the way Stella’s voice proclaims urgency, it is obvious she is trying to convince Kingsley to do something.

“How is she feeling?” I ask, walking into the room. Stella turns, her glance at me fleeting before she rises from the side of the bed and steps away.

“I’ll give you two some privacy.”

Stella looks back at Kingsley and nods her head, as though urging her to do as she advised. I curve my lips into a line of disapproval when I approach Kingsley and see the state she's in. She’s sitting up in the bed, a box of tissues next to her. Her face is puffy and she looks exhausted from the amount of crying she’s done. I’m not sure what has triggered her – Kingsley is so unpredictable, there’s no telling what set her off – but it started after Saul mentioned transfer of the docks to my family. I can’t imagine she’d be upset about that, but this is Kingsley we’re talking about here.

“I want you to know we had no idea that your father had done this. I don’t want any part of anything that’s going to make you unhappy.”

There’s a fresh round of tears, which turns into sobbing, until she’s shredding the tissue in her hand out of anger. I stand perplexed, unable to read her, and I can’t say that I like that.

“Kingsley.”

Stella’s soft voice glides from the doorway, forcing Kingsley to lift her head and look at the woman. Stella gives her a pointed look and Kingsley seems to relax, calming down enough not to smack me as I take a seat at the side of the bed. I sit with my side facing her, my legs sprawled before me, and look at the wall introspectively. I can’t look at her. I can’t see her pain and not hate myself for not knowing how to erase it.

“Tell me how I can fix this,” I say, an invisible baton beating against my heart. The fear of losing her is killing me.

Her breath hitches, catching her voice as she remains silent. It is the longest and ugliest silence of my life. I never want her silence. I want her crazy and her naïveté. I want her joy at the little things and I want her hand against my face. I want her screams and her anger, and all the things that make her who she is. I want her everything.

“Kingsley…” My voice sounds more like a plea as I turn to look at her, tracking the tears rolling down her cheeks and the pain etched in her eyes.

“I can’t do this,” she whispers.

“Do what?”

I lift my legs onto the bed and turn to face her as she presses a hand to her chest, stemming the pain she feels. I move closer, bring my hands up to her face and brush her hair back. I raise my lips to her forehead and hold them there, internally sighing in relief when she grabs my shirt and brings me in closer to her. She can’t get close enough. She is hurt, in pain, but she just wants to be closer.

“Tell me what’s wrong Kingsley,” I breathe, moving to her ear. She sighs into me but doesn’t let go.

“Tell me why you came into my life.”

“Into whose life?” I reply. “Kingsley or Moneybags?”

63

DANTE

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