I stared at him, wide-eyed. For once in my life, I had no idea what to say.
But then it wasn’t completely out of the realm of possibility. Back when Tamara was killed, he was still on Malcolm and Maud’s little Angel Pharma concoctions—special cocktails whipped up at the drug company my father founded—which made him prone not only to violent outbursts and manic episodes but also to blackouts.
I looked down at my hands. They trembled as I gathered the guts to ask a question I’d needed the answer to for weeks.
“Why didn’t you tell me Tamara was dead, Matty?” I hazarded a glance at his eyes. “You came home that day. You spent the whole afternoon with us. You never once felt the need to say ‘Oh, hey, guys, I kind of found Tamara murdered this morning’?”
Matthew pressed the heels of his hands into his eye sockets. “I was in shock,” he said. “And I was terrified, okay? I didn’t know what had happened. And you guys were already being put through the wringer by the DA, thanks to Malcolm and Maud. I thought… I thought…”
Suddenly he slammed his hand against the glass and the whole wall shuddered.
“Watch it!” the guard barked.
“You thought what?” I asked quietly.
He shook his head. “I think I thought that if I just ignored it, somehow it would all go away. I didn’t want more scrutiny placed on us.” His eyes were wet as he finally looked me in the eye. “Maybe I did do it, Tandy. Craziness runs in our veins, right?”
“Not in mine, Matty. Not anymore.” I took a breath. “I don’t do crazy these days.”
“Oh, you do crazy just fine.”
Then, out of nowhere, Matthew burst into tears. I’d never seen him cry once in my entire life.
“I was drunk. I don’t know how else I could have done it,” he said between sobs. “If I could see the apartment again… maybe… if I could go back there, maybe it would come back to me. God, I wish I could just get bail. Have you talked to Uncle Peter? Can’t he find the money somewhere?”
I shook my head, my throat full. “We’re totally broke, remember? And your bail is five million dollars.” I pressed my palm to the glass at roughly the same angle as his, as if the connection brought us closer. “Please don’t keep saying you might be guilty, Matty. It can’t be true.”
The door behind him squealed open. “Time’s up,” the guard said.
“I’m sorry, kiddo.” Matthew shot me what looked like an apologetic smile as he was pulled away. The door slammed behind them and I just sat there, stunned.
“You taking up residence or what?” the guard standing behind me said. I got up and walked briskly down the hall in front of him, pretending I wasn’t completely broken inside.
When I emerged from The Tombs, the bright sunlight hit my eyes and they burned. I squinted as I hailed a cab on Baxter, then slammed the door so hard the whole car rattled.
“Please take me home,” I said to the cabbie.
He drilled me through the rearview mirror with his hard black eyes. “You want me to guess where you live?”
“The Dakota,” I barked, in no mood. “Just go.”
The cab leapt forward, and we headed uptown.
CONFESSION
There’s something I’ve been avoiding. Something I haven’t admitted to anyone. I’ve barely even admitted it to myself. But this is a confession, so I’m confessing. Here goes.
I’m not entirely sure how I feel about this whole having-emotions thing.
I know, I know. I’m the one who freaked out when I realized that the multiple pills my parents had been feeding us kids every morning were, in fact, high-test Angel Pharma mood-, mind-, and body-altering drugs. I’m the one who demanded that Harry go cold-turkey with me so that we could take back control of our lives, our heads, maybe even our souls.
But those pills tainted our very essence—everything that made us human. I mean, when I saw my parents’ dead bodies lying twisted in their bed, I didn’t even cry. I didn’t feel anguish or loss; I just felt angry. Anger was the only emotion the Angel kids were occasionally allowed to feel. Probably because anger produces adrenaline and adrenaline can be very useful. Whether you’re tearing down a professional gridiron with two three-hundred-pound defensive ends on your tail, playing Mozart at Carnegie Hall, working complex calc problems at a desk, or navigating the wilds of uncharted jungles, adrenaline is a good thing to have on your side.
And of course, Malcolm and Maud knew that. They formulated our daily uppers and downers for optimal performance. They rewarded excellence with extravagant prizes called Grande Gongos and responded to failure with extreme punishments called Big Chops. And all emotions, like empathy, sadness, even joy, were failures. Pointless. Not for their little protégés.
Until Malcolm and Maud were gone. And I started making decisions for myself.
Now it’s three months later, and yeah, I’m feeling things, all right. I’m feeling sorrow and excitement and nervousness. I’m feeling happiness and uncertainty and self-doubt. There’s even a little bit of hopefulness sometimes. It’s all emotion, all the time, and to be honest, sometimes I just want to down a whole mess of those pills again so I can have a little peace.
But the worst of all these new emotions is the fear. I can’t stand feeling fear. And these days I’m afraid all the time. I’m afraid for my brother Matthew and what will happen to him. I’m afraid for my little brother, Hugo, and my twin brother, Harry, and what it will be like if we’re thrown out of our apartment and tossed into foster homes and public schools. I don’t even want to know what would happen if either one of them was faced with an actual bully. Harry would probably dissolve into a blubbering ball on the floor and get his butt kicked, while Hugo would probably—no, definitely—Hulk Out and tear whomever it was limb from limb. Then I’d have two brothers behind bars.
And of course, I’m also terrified that I may never see James again.
James Rampling. The only boy I ever loved, and the one person (besides my older sister, Katherine, who died years ago) I could trust with all these emotions… if I had any idea where to find him.
That might be the worst fear of all—that I’ll never get to experience true love again. The very thought makes my stomach clench, my heart pound, and my mind race.
See? Fear. I can’t stand it. And if things don’t calm down soon, it might be the one emotion that’ll convince me to go back to being Maud and Malcolm’s good little robot. To go back to the drugs.
To go back to being numb.
Contents
COVER
TITLE PAGE
WELCOME
DEDICATION
1: MURDER IN THE HOUSE OF ANGELS
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CONFESSION
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CONFESSION
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CONFESSION
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CONFESSION
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CONFESSION
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CONFESSION
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CONFESSION
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
2: LOVE IN THE HOUSE OF ANGELS
CHAP
TER 42
CONFESSION
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CONFESSION
CHAPTER 47
CONFESSION
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
CHAPTER 54
CHAPTER 55
CHAPTER 56
CHAPTER 57
CHAPTER 58
CHAPTER 59
CHAPTER 60
CHAPTER 61
CHAPTER 62
CHAPTER 63
CONFESSION
CHAPTER 64
CHAPTER 65
CHAPTER 66
CONFESSION
CHAPTER 67
CHAPTER 68
CHAPTER 69
CHAPTER 70
CHAPTER 71
CHAPTER 72
CONFESSION
CHAPTER 73
CHAPTER 74
CHAPTER 75
CHAPTER 76
CHAPTER 77
CHAPTER 78
CHAPTER 79
CHAPTER 80
CHAPTER 81
CHAPTER 82
CHAPTER 83
CONFESSION
CHAPTER 84
CHAPTER 85
EPILOGUE : SHARKS
CHAPTER 86
CHAPTER 87
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
BOOKS BY JAMES PATTERSON FOR YOUNG ADULT READERS
PRAISE
A PREVIEW OF THE PRIVATE SCHOOL MURDERS
COPYRIGHT
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2012 James Patterson
Excerpt from Confessions: The Private School Murders copyright © 2013 James Patterson
Cover design by Tom Sanderson.
Cover copyright © 2013 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.
Image of woman © Stephanie Frey / Arcangel Images
Image of blinds © Peter Glass / Arcangel Images
All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher is unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.
Little, Brown and Company
Hachette Book Group
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Visit our website at lb-teens.com
Little, Brown and Company is a division of Hachette Book Group, Inc.
The Little, Brown name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.
The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.
First ebook edition: September 2012
ISBN 978-0-316-20701-0
In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher is unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.
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Confessions of a Murder Suspect td-1 Page 20
