James Patterson - Confessions of a Murder Suspect

That’s when I realized Malcolm and Maud had been tracking me.

Like a dog with a chip, penned in by an electric fence.

67

I sat there in the theater for a few minutes, taking deep breaths in through my nose, and then exhaling through my mouth. Some of Dr. Keyes’s techniques still worked wonders for me. Soon I mustered up the courage to switch on the TV show in progress, leaving the recorded DVR segment for later. Much, much later.

I heaved a sigh of relief. I’d rejoined at a commercial break. When the show returned to the air, I saw the four of us wading into the dense field of black umbrellas as we went into the Dakota.

Then the show cut to a close-up of Matthew talking to Kaylee Kerz, lifting his shades to fasten his blue eyes on her, then giving a thumbs-up to the camera. Matty looked slick. Too slick.

The show cut again, to Tony Imbimbo interviewing Capricorn Caputo.

Caputo hacked a couple of times into his hand then said darkly, “It’s an ongoing investigation. I can only say that we have suspects and we’re confident that we will bring the killer to justice.”

Cut again to Imbimbo, stopping neighbors on their way into the Dakota. Mrs. Hauser, wearing gold lamé and a hat, complained to the TV shark, “We’re now looking into taking legal action against the Angels. This kind of disturbance is against the rules.”

I blurted out, “Legal action? What kind of legal action? They wouldn’t try to evict us, would they?”

Then documentary filmmaker Nathan Beale Crosby, wearing his trademark red baseball hat and matching glasses, rushed past, almost knocking Mrs. Hauser down. Crosby wouldn’t stop for someone else’s camera.

But Morris Sampson happily stepped up to Imbimbo’s microphone.

Imbimbo introduced Sampson as a number one bestselling author, which made me snicker. “Bestselling where? Timbuktu?”

Sampson said to Imbimbo, “I’ve heard privately that Maud and Malcolm Angel were poisoned by a toxin that even the city’s forensic lab can’t identify. You know, of course, that the family manufactures pharmaceutical drugs.”

Imbimbo could hardly hold back his elation at the implied connection between Angel Pharmaceuticals and the poison that killed my parents.

I felt as though I’d been shot between the eyes.

“Mr. Sampson, who do you think killed the Angels?”

“I’m not going to point any fingers,” Sampson said. “But if I were writing this story as a novel—and let me emphasize the words work of fiction —I would say that all four children are smart and crafty enough to commit murder. The four of them, working in concert, could probably get away with it.”

Sampson’s remark signaled the end of the program.

The show’s signature close was a series of full-screen photos accompanied by the sound of a camera flash as each picture filled the screen and the words Under Suspicion were stamped across each image.

Matthew, flash bam .

Me, flash- bam .

Harry, flash- bam .

Hugo, flash- bam .

Bam, bam, bam, bam.

“Under suspicion of committing murder by the NYPD.”

What was even worse—much worse—was that I had the exact same list of suspects.

68

I’d told Hugo and Harry that we were going to return to school on day seven. At the time, of course, I hadn’t known that our dirty laundry was going to be aired on national television the night before.

And so that morning, I was paralyzed. I couldn’t get out of bed. Embarrassment was an emotion I’d been shielded from for most of my life, either by the mood-altering drugs or simply by being sheltered from my peers. Now, humiliation was crippling me.

Don’t let this crush you, Tandy , the little voice inside said. You’re stronger than this. And you’re much stronger than those drugs ever were. Trust yourself.

And that’s what I did. I roused my brothers and forced myself out the door with my chin up, convinced that academics would be just what I needed to reestablish some normalcy and balance in my life.

All Saints is kind of like an old-fashioned one-room schoolhouse—except that it’s not. All Saints is a privately owned, Gothic-style, former Lutheran church on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. Malcolm and Maud loved this school for its small and exclusive enrollment, and because Headmaster Timothy Thibodaux is unfailingly demanding and uncompromising. The law of order is maintained there, and Harry and I had front-row seats because of our consistently high grade point averages.

But as Harry, Hugo, and I entered the school, I wondered for the first time if our top grades were due to our hard work or simply the result of Malcolm’s jelly bean–colored pills.

What kind of mind did I have without them?

I had to know.

I was hoping for a rigorous academic workout that morning. I wanted to be pushed and pressured so much that I couldn’t think about anything else.

We turned right off the narthex and climbed the familiar stairway. Our classroom was there, under the soaring cathedral ceiling, with a view of the altar and the nave that had been turned into a gallery for the works and awards of all the kids who’d ever graduated from All Saints.

Mr. Thibodaux was waiting for us at the top of the stairs. His hands were clasped in front of him, and his snappy jacket and trousers—in autumn bronze and green tones—were as crisp and pressed as if they’d been put together by a celebrity stylist.

Mr. Thibodaux is a smart man, generous with his praise and crystal clear in his criticism. He is exactly the kind of teacher compulsive overachievers like the Angels appreciate. I can usually find the twinkle in his bespectacled blue eyes, but I saw none of that the morning we returned to school. Mr. Thibodaux must be worried about us , I thought.

I smiled up into his scowling face. “It’s really good to be here, Mr. Thibodaux.”

“Not for us, Ms. Angel. You didn’t get my messages? You’ve been suspended—all three of you,” he said sternly. “And I’m afraid you’re going to have to leave these premises right now.”

69

I had looked up to Mr. Thibodaux since I was four years old. I immediately felt the sting of his rejection, but I honestly didn’t understand what he had just said to me.

I said stupidly, “I beg your pardon?”

“You can’t kick us out!” Hugo said, balling his fists.

Harry looked like he’d been slapped.

“This decision isn’t open to discussion, children,” Mr. Thibodaux snapped. “You are suspects in the murders of your parents. We wish you the best, of course, but you cannot be here. It would be far too much of a distraction for the rest of the students and staff.”

“But the police haven’t charged us with murder.”

“This is a private school. This whole media circus is not only disruptive; it could seriously taint our reputation—”

Mr. Thibodaux broke off in mid-sentence as Harry stepped up to him, his jaw thrust forward.

Harry spoke in a hardened tone I hadn’t heard from him before. “We’re not guilty of anything, sir,” he said. “You can’t speak to us that way.”