James Patterson - Confessions of a Murder Suspect

“And last, Tandy, you self-important twerp, eighteen people were having dinner with me when your parents were killed. In my apartment. All eighteen of them swore to the police that I was with them until you called me that night.”

“You could have used some kind of time-release formula,” I said. “You encapsulated a poison and put it into a bottle of something, and my parents innocently—”

“Get out of here,” our uncle said. “All of you.”

He looked as if I’d struck him across the face with a whip. And I saw something else, too. There were tears in his eyes. Uncle Peter was actually crying.

“Did you hear what I said?” His voice was shaking.

My brothers stared mutely, but then Hugo, who had been sitting beside me, got up and walked over to Uncle Peter—and tipped his chair back. The wheels shot out from under the chair and Peter went down with a satisfying crash.

“I hate you for turning us into freaks,” Hugo said, standing over our uncle. “I hate you with all my heart. Just like I hated them.”

Uncle Peter scrambled to his feet and lunged at Hugo, but Matthew swiftly intervened and shoved Peter against the wall and held him there, about a foot off the ground.

“ I’m your guardian! ” our uncle shouted. “I can turn some of you over to the state, understand me? Without me, you three underage ingrates are wards of the state.” Uncle Peter had turned bright red, and it occurred to me that he might have a heart attack right there in front of us.

I said, “Matty, let him go. Let him go ! He didn’t kill Malcolm and Maud.”

62

How did I know that? To be honest, I didn’t. But he was right. He could turn us over to the state, and despite his obvious hatred for us, the fact of the matter was that he couldn’t have been at our apartment when Malcolm and Maud were killed.

“Nice going, Tandy,” said Matthew. “You really bit off more than you could chew there.”

“You’re going to blame me for this?” I fixed him with a steely glare. “You were backing me up the whole time, until he brought out the part about witnesses.”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Harry. “We all heard how Uncle Peter talked about his brother. He loved Malcolm. He couldn’t have killed him any more than we could kill one another. Right?”

“Whatever,” Hugo said, punching the air. “Tipping him over was the best part.”

As we left Hell’s Kitchen in the town car, Virgil looked at us anxiously through the rearview mirror.

“Are you kids okay? We’re going to the police station on Eighty-second Street, right?”

“There’s been a change of plans, Virgil,” I said in a small, raspy voice. “Please take us home.”

Since discovering that Uncle Peter and our father had used us as guinea pigs, I had been feeling enough fury to ignite the family business and burn the building down. I leaned back against the dark leather seat as my three brothers talked about what they wanted to do to Uncle Pig.

Matthew was saying, “I can’t believe what we just did in there. I think Uncle Pig could get me on assault. Tandy, you could get charged with libel or something like that. And, Hugo. What happened to you, little man?”

“I had to stick up for us. I felt… angry. Violent.”

“I’ve been there,” said Matty. “Like, every day of my life.”

I was feeling an ache that I didn’t recognize. It was as if there were a radioactive seed inside my chest, growing hotter and more toxic by the minute.

Was I suffering from a guilty conscience? Had the pill called Num protected me from this feeling until now? And what did I feel so guilty about? Uncle Peter had been instrumental in drugging his own family. That was heinous. That was criminal.

But had he committed murder?

I really wasn’t so sure. I kept thinking about how he’d flinched when I’d accused him. And I had seen him cry.

Still, I’d accused him publicly. Everyone in his entire office probably heard what I’d said. And if he didn’t kill Maud and Malcolm, I’d done him wrong.

I said to my brothers, “Uncle Peter might be Dr. Frankenstein. He might even be a murderer. But I have to account for what I did to him. I have to apologize for that.”

“Are you kidding?” Matthew said.

I shook my head. “I have to take back what I said.”

Hugo said, “Are you really sorry? Or are you just saying you’re sorry because you feel you have to say it? You’re supposed to apologize with a true heart. Samantha told me that.”

“What do you mean, ‘true heart’?” I asked.

Hugo shrugged. Harry laughed. Matthew snorted.

I glared at my brothers. “What?”

“If you have to ask, it kind of defeats the purpose,” said Matthew.

“Aw, Tandy, I feel sorry for you.” Harry smiled wistfully. “I think getting off the drugs is gonna be great for you.”

I sniffed, feeling patronized. But… it was true. In some ways, I was like a child.

And that was going to change, really soon.

I pulled out my phone and googled apology and found that a true apology has three components.

One: I’m sorry.

Two: I promise never to do it again.

Three: What can I do to make it up to you?

And four, according to Hugo by way of Samantha, an apology has to be made with a true heart. I guessed that meant I’d need to be sincere.

I didn’t really know how to do that. I still hated Uncle Peter for his role in all of this. He’d stepped into our personal business many more times than you even know about.

But I would have to try, because I had been wrong.

And even though my parents were gone, I still felt horrified by the thought that they would be ashamed of me.

63

I called Peter. Here’s what I said.

“Uncle Peter, it’s Tandy.”

Silence.

“I’m sincerely sorry for accusing you of killing my parents. I know you loved Malcolm—”

He hung up on me.

I called him back two more times, and when he didn’t answer, I left my full apology on his voice mail. Then I called Sergeant Caputo. In a strange way, I felt like apologizing to him, too. He was driven to the point of being abusive—just like I’d been—but I thought he was trying his best to solve the murders.

“It’s Tandoori Angel. I have reason to believe that Peter Angel is shipping illegal drugs to China. Yes, I’m sending you some photos via e-mail right now. You may want to notify the Drug Enforcement Administration.”

After sending the incriminating photos to Caputo, I clicked off my phone and looked out the window as we sped up the West Side Highway.

It was starting to rain. I calmed myself by counting the swipes of the windshield wipers and relaxing into the whooshing sound of our wheels speeding over the wet pavement.

And I had the recurring thought that had been driving me since I found out that Malcolm and Maud were dead.

In fact, I felt it more strongly than ever.

Whoever had killed my parents had been an “inside” person who was certain that he was smart enough to outwit all of us.

I didn’t know if he’d robbed us of our parents or liberated us. Either way or both ways, I couldn’t let the killer continue to live among us unpunished.

I couldn’t let the killer win.

CONFESSION