James Patterson - Confessions of a Murder Suspect

“Matty, please answer the question. Was Tamara sleeping with Malcolm? ” Gags rippled around the table again. “There’s no way Tamara told the channel six news and didn’t tell you.”

“Really? And how well do you know Tamara ?” Matthew shouted at me. “How do you know what psycho ideas she gets? And here’s another question, Tan- doori : Who appointed you Lord High Executioner?”

Samantha put her hands to her face. “Calm down, everyone. Calm down.” Her voice wobbled.

And then she fell apart.

“I miss Maud so much,” she cried.

We all looked at Samantha, who was now bawling noisily. Oh, geez. It was bad. All of it, all the time.

“Hey, hey,” I said. “Please don’t cry.”

Samantha only cried harder.

Just then, a hush sucked the ambient sound right out of the restaurant. I looked up and saw that nearly all the other diners were staring at us.

Hugo dropped his fork, flicked his eyes back and forth, and then said in a really loud voice, “Haven’t you people ever seen someone cry before?”

The stares continued for a moment, until a bald guy in a plaid jacket started to laugh. A few more people joined in; apparently they found this scene hilarious. I didn’t see anything funny about it, though, and Hugo must’ve felt the same way, because he stuck his pinkie fingers in his mouth and whistled for attention.

When he got it, he flipped the bird at the bald guy.

Harry grinned.

Then Harry gave everyone in the restaurant the finger, and then so did Matthew. I couldn’t be left out of this, so my middle finger went up, too. Samantha dabbed at her eyes, then joined us in flipping off the diners at Shun Lee.

Five middle fingers.

We all laughed hysterically, out of control. The server rushed over to Matthew, brandishing the check, basically begging us to leave, and we were all overcome by another bout of uncontrollable laughter.

You have to take your yuks where you can find them, right? Especially if the justice system wants to hang you and your sibs for murder.

54

It was way after midnight, and the only light in the apartment came from the glowing green of the sharks’ phosphorescent bodies. Everyone was asleep but me.

The writer Colette once wrote, “There are days when solitude is a heady wine that intoxicates you with freedom, others when it is a bitter tonic, and still others when it is a poison that makes you beat your head against the wall.” I felt like I’d been beating my head against the wall for four days almost to the minute.

I was next to nowhere in my investigation. There was virtually no evidence, there were no known witnesses, and because my parents had at least a couple hundred million dollars, anyone in line to inherit had a motive to kill. And there were a lot of us. None of us could be counted out. Not even me.

I pulled a chair up next to Robert and switched on the lamp behind him, which illuminated Harry’s new painting of Malcolm and Maud, hanging above Robert’s TV. He called it What Love Looks Like , and he’d depicted our parents in acid green and bloody purple, their arms around each other and their mouths open in silent screams as they confronted the viewer with their stares.

Harry had remarked to me as he hung it: “Our parents were gods and monsters at the same time. Maybe we’re all like that—gods and monsters.”

Harry’s use of extreme light and dark colors allowed for multiple and opposite interpretations of the work, as he’d intended, but in my humble opinion, Harry had deemphasized our parents’ godlike traits while capturing their more monstrous qualities with real feeling.

Maud might have liked this painting, because there was nothing sentimental about it. The style was abstract and expressionistic; it reminded me of Picasso’s weird distortions and Francis Bacon’s gruesome imagery.

Harry’s latest work evoked a very strong emotion in me, attractive and repulsive at the same time. As I stared at the painting, that emotion swelled, and my head started to spin.

What was happening? Was it the drug withdrawal?

And then I hallucinated again. I thought I saw that face, a bit clearer this time. He was handsome.… No. More than that. Deeply attractive. And yet—somehow repellant to me at the same time…

I felt a sudden heaving in my chest, so forceful that I stood up and clutched my heart just to make sure I wasn’t in cardiac arrest.

The ghostly face was gone, but I staggered over to the painting that had triggered the frightening response and snatched it from its hanger.

A nail fell to the floor.

Too easily, as though it had been hammered right through the wall and into an empty space on the other side.

Suddenly, I refocused back on the mystery. Setting the painting down, I remembered the closet on the other side of the wall.

Years earlier, I had seen my father coming out of that closet. When I asked him about it, he told me that he and Maud stored their out-of-season clothing there. And then he locked the door.

I was twelve at the time, old enough to register my father’s strange expression. But I was in middle school, and closets were pretty low on my list of interests.

But now? My father’s secret hiding place had just shot up to the number one position.

I left the living room and moved along the corridor behind the stairs. I stopped where I had seen my father emerge from the closet.

It was the same closet where I’d spent my sleepless night as a Big Chop.

The police had broken off the lock and looked through the closet, as they’d done everywhere in the apartment, but they hadn’t found anything. Then again, they were obviously incompetent.

You see, during that night that I wasn’t allowed to lie down, I’d had time to really search the closet for the secret I knew must be inside. Why else would my father have a lock on a closet door? Why else would he look so strange when he came out of the closet? After hours of looking, I had finally found a door that blended so seamlessly into the wall, you’d never see it without spending hours examining every crack.

Had my father wanted me to find it? I guess I’d never know. It didn’t matter, though, because the door hadn’t budged that night, and I still couldn’t find a way to make it budge.

But there had to be a key somewhere in this house. And I was going to find it.

55

My feet hardly touched the treads as I ran up the stairs to my parents’ suite. I dialed up the hallway lights, and even in the pale glow coming from the hall, their room looked blasted and horrifying.

I stood on the threshold, cold sweat beading up all over my body. I actually started to shake. Before I could stop it, my mind had called up the horrific image of my parents’ twisted bodies on the bed.

I felt sick at the thought that they had been betrayed by someone they knew and trusted.

What were they thinking before they died? Did they even know who had murdered them?

Had they tried to save themselves?

I gripped the doorjamb with both hands until my rapid heartbeat slowed. Then I took a tentative step forward and entered my parents’ room. The place where they made babies, the place where they made me .

This most private of rooms had been frozen in the aftermath of the chaos. Belongings had been dumped from dresser drawers and lay in a jumble on the floor. Dead flowers drooped in a vase on the fireplace mantel, and the armoire doors were opened wide, as if they were pleading with me to come in and find the truth.