Confessions: The Paris Mysteries

by James Patterson

  It might not all be provable, but the press didn’t depend on the facts. If the scandal was big enough, Peter Angel would stay far away from his family. Rampling would stay away from us, too.

  Or—on the other hand…

  The absolute opposite could happen. There could be a mad rush to put Angel Pharmaceuticals in business again. There would be a big demand for superpills for superkids. Going public could be the best thing that ever happened to Peter.

  I was thinking about Angel Pharmaceuticals, the Next Generation, when a black car filled the window to my left, blocking out the light.

  Before I could tell what was happening, the SUV scraped long and hard against the body of our Town Car. Metal screamed against metal. Sparks flew.

  My God. We were being attacked.

  The black Cadillac Escalade had the same license plate as the one I’d seen off and on all day. It was grinding the side of our car, maneuvering us toward a steep, rocky drop-off to the reservoir far below.

  I was too scared to scream.

  Anton seemed to be coping well with the attack: braking, evading, racing ahead. I looked to see who was driving the Escalade but couldn’t see through its tinted glass. Then there was another shock as the SUV slammed against our side panels, even as Anton buzzed down his window. He had his gun in his hand, a semiautomatic, and he was firing at the Escalade’s right front tire.

  He yelled to me, “Miss. Get down on the floor.”

  I wrestled with my seat belt, then dropped to the floor of the car and crouched there.

  Shots rang out, but I could tell that the Escalade hadn’t been stopped because we were now being rammed from behind, followed by more awful scraping against the left side of our vehicle.

  I popped up to get a fix on what was happening, and for sure, the Escalade was still pushing us hard toward the thin metal guardrail that stood between the Town Car and the immense void at the bottom of the cliff.

  More shots pinged, and this time we were taking fire. Glass shattered, and Anton barked out a yell; then he groaned and slumped to the side.

  The car veered in a gentle arc toward the guardrail, and at the same time a voice on the car radio asked Anton to respond. Which he didn’t do.

  I called out to him, then leaned over the front seat. What I saw was worse than I could have imagined.

  Anton had been shot through the temple. He wasn’t breathing or moving—I knew he was dead. Anton had lost his life protecting me. I couldn’t help him—and now I was alone.

  If I didn’t somehow get control of this driverless car, I was living the last minutes of my life.

  There was only one thing to do. I reached over the back of the front seat and grabbed the steering wheel. I wrenched it to the left and brought the vehicle back to the roadway just as the drop-off ended and was replaced by a wall of rock.

  But the Escalade was coming up fast on my left again. At the same time, because I couldn’t give it any gas, the Town Car was slowing down. I desperately wanted to get to the wooded area a hundred yards ahead, somehow engineer a soft crash landing in the trees, then jump out and hide.

  Meanwhile, the Town Car was grinding against the rocky outcropping. As the friction of metal against rock slowed the car to a violent stop, I looked for Anton’s gun and saw it on the floor under the gas pedal.

  I was readying myself to climb over Anton’s body when I heard a loud engine roar. I glanced over my shoulder.

  Another car was coming up from behind, heading toward the Town Car at high speed.

  I was outnumbered. I was done.

  Anton was dead. And I was next.

  I scrunched down on the floor of the back compartment and covered my head.

  My mind swirled with fear, and thoughts about my too-short life were broken up with bright flashes of relief that soon I could put down the despair and anguish I’d been carrying for too long.

  Just then, there was a new sound, the rat-a-tat-tat of automatic gunfire, followed by the whoosh of a speeding vehicle flying past the Town Car.

  I knew I should stay down, but I couldn’t do it. I just couldn’t. I poked my head up and saw that the car that had been speeding toward my Town Car had passed by and was going after the Escalade.

  Time stretched like a rubber band. The sound of each rapidly fired bullet was distinct. I saw each of the Escalade’s tires blow out, and each blowout propelled the SUV farther into a screeching wild spin, until it flew off the asphalt and into the thicket of mature trees at the edge of the parkway.

  There was a horrific crash that seemed to unfold one long second at a time. Smoke billowed, and even from so far away, I could smell burning rubber.

  Then the band snapped back and real time resumed.

  The pursuit vehicle pulled alongside the Escalade and braked. The driver got out of his car, but his vehicle blocked my view of him. He seemed to inspect the crashed Escalade, then get back into his car. Immediately, he began to back up at high speed toward the Town Car.

  I ducked again. A hit man was coming for me. I was going to be executed gangster-style. Why? And by whom?

  As if that mattered anymore. This was the end.

  There was a tapping on the window above my head. A voice called, “Ms. Angel. Tandy! Are you all right?”

  The rear door of the Town Car opened, and I peeked up to see Mr. Kenny Chang. He looked scared—for me.

  A river of relief ran through me.

  I recovered from the shock enough to say, “Mr. Chang. I think Anton is dead.”

  Chang said, “There are two fatalities in the Escalade. I’ll call the authorities. Actually”—we both heard sirens at the same time—“I’m sure the state police are already on the way.”

  “Who died?” I asked. Was it James and C.P.? Finishing out his father’s orders to get rid of me?

  “Let’s wait for a positive identification.”

  “I have to know now.”

  My legs were wobbly, but I was sure I could reach the smoking one-car wreck that had smashed spectacularly into the thick stand of trees.

  “Tandy, it’s an ugly scene,” said Mr. Chang. “Trust me. It’s something you really don’t want to see.”

  I started walking.

  Mr. Chang called out, “Tandy. No walking on the highway, okay? I’ll drive you there.”

  It was a short ride, maybe a hundred yards. When Chang’s car was alongside the wreck of the Escalade, I got out of the car and peered into the crumpled front seat, where two bleeding, twisted bodies lay half covered by airbags.

  I looked closer at their faces, and what I saw made me scream.

  Then I collapsed. Just freaking passed right out. I heard Mr. Chang calling my name, but honestly, I didn’t want to wake up again. Ever.

  There’s more I have to tell you, of course. So much more. Let me start with this: I’ve checked into an institution in Upper Manhattan. Waterside is something like Fern Haven, but the doctors here are trying to help me, not experiment on me, and going for treatment was my idea.

  Still, Waterside is kind of a madhouse. There is no cone of silence here. I hear screams of people enduring detox, doctors being paged at all hours, sirens, and all the noise that is the backdrop of the city that never sleeps.

  At Jacob’s insistence, Private has stationed a twenty-four-hour rotation of armed guards, and someone is always right outside my room.

  Sometimes I feel safe.

  But the gory death tableau in the Escalade haunts me night and day. At first, it was hard to identify the crushed bodies, but finally, I recognized the driver. He was one of Royal Rampling’s goons, who had boiled out of that SUV on the Place du Carrousel in an attempt to separate James and me.

  The dead man in the passenger seat was Royal Rampling, none other. He had personally fired on the Town Car, had personally tried to shoot me. And now he was gone for good.

  But Peter Angel is still alive, and he could be anywhere. He is still a threat to me and everyone I love. Sometimes, when I sleep, it feels as if
he’s a gargoyle perched on my headboard, leering as I dream.

  As for my treatment, I’ve been diagnosed with “extreme exhaustion,” or as the admitting physician said to me, “You’ve undergone more stress in the last few months than most people experience in a lifetime. You need a break, Tandy.”

  But I wasn’t going to get it yet.

  Day one, while I was still shaking from stress, I got a note in the form of a greeting card: flowers on the outside, some words printed on the inside, Thinking of you.

  Then there was a message. I could hardly keep my eyes on the tangle of words in a handwriting I recognized.

  Dear Tandy,

  I feel horrible. I know I was wrong to hook up with James and I was weak and there is no excuse and I don’t even know how to convincingly say “I’m sorry.” But I really, truly am. I was lonely. I missed Harry. I missed you. And then James was right here.

  You know how he is, Tandy.

  I really had no power to refuse him.

  It’s not an excuse. It’s just a poor explanation. But maybe this will make you feel better. Right after you left the residence hall, James told me to go.

  He dumped me, Tandy. On my ass. And you know why?

  Because he’s still in love with you.

  Reading C.P.’s words hurt in so many ways, I couldn’t begin to list them.

  I skimmed the rest of C.P.’s note in one painful flash. She wrote that she wanted to visit me and that she would make everything up to me and that she would work hard to prove to me that we could be friends again.

  By the time I got to the Xs and Os, I was ripping mad, crazy mad, feeling a rage like I’d never felt before. Maybe it was not just anger at C.P. and at James, but unexpressed fury at my parents and my uncle Peter all rolled up into this one rotten thing.

  I’d been savagely betrayed by so many people I had loved.

  I was even furious at myself for ever loving any of them.

  I crumpled C.P.’s disgusting card; then I straightened it out so that I could shred it into tiny pieces. When all that was left of C.P.’s spidery apology was a pile of confetti, I scooped it into my fist and then flushed every word down the toilet.

  I felt relieved.

  But I was still a mess.

  My therapist at Waterside is Dr. Mary Robosson.

  I actually like her quite a bit. We’re dealing with some heavy stuff, mostly trying to peel back the thousands of rubbery layers of lies I’ve been told to find the truth about my life.

  We’re also talking about love and what it means. This is going to be a long course, and I’m not looking for shortcuts. I have a lot to learn about love, when it’s real and when it’s not. Dr. Robosson assures me I will love again.

  “Really?”

  “Definitely. You’re just sixteen. First love isn’t last love or only love or even the best love. The pain you feel is appropriate. You’ve been hurt, and not because of something you did or didn’t do, Tandy. You’re very real. And you’re wonderful.”

  I won’t lie. I have thought about both C.P. and James a lot, even after I thought I’d wiped them out of my mind. I confess that I’ve written them each a few letters under the heading of “people who are dead to me,” but I’ve deleted all the letters without sending.

  That’s a pretty effective kind of therapy. James and C.P. matter less and less to me as the pain drains away.

  I spend more time remembering the Cordeaux family in France: how their lives were savaged by Peter. I think about Monsieur Laurier at the Parfumerie Bellaire and his long-lasting love for Gram Hilda. I’m very grateful for her incredible generosity, and I think about her lovely house, which was our home when we didn’t have any other.

  It’s gone, and yet I remember every room and every view, the whole length and breadth and depth of it. In a way, the Gram Hilda museum is now within me.

  I still meditate about the things I’ve done wrong, as Father Jean-Jacques had prescribed. It helps me feel acceptance about the people who have hurt me, because we all have reasons for the things we do, whether justified or not. And one of those reasons might actually be love.

  Case in point: Malcolm and Maud left me damaged, I know, but they loved me. And so I can forgive them.

  Jacob, Harry, and Hugo visit almost every day. Even Matty comes to visit as often as he can. Hugo wears a T-shirt that reads WHAT DOESN’T KILL YOU MAKES YOU STRONGER.

  He strikes poses, like he’s a bodybuilder, and that makes me laugh. Every time.

  It’s indisputable that my family and I have been tried, tested, even baptized by fire, and we share the strongest possible bonds siblings could have. And that includes my sister, Katherine… the Angel who rose from the dead.

  Yesterday, I got an e-mail from an address I didn’t recognize. I was about to delete it, but for some reason—boredom, curiosity, gut instinct—I clicked it open.

  The subject line read, “Someone I want you to meet.”

  The body of the e-mail contained only a link to a video—but not so fast. Who, exactly, wanted me to meet whom? Was this hate mail from Peter? Had Mr. Rampling sent another threat in the form of a virus, this time from the grave? Was C.P. trying to reach me again?

  For better or for worse, I was curious. And so, with great trepidation, I clicked on the link.

  The video opened on a close-up of a darling baby in a carrier. He was wearing blue, and between giggles, he beat the air with his little hands and cooed. At the halfway mark of the twenty-second clip, another face came on the screen.

  It was Katherine.

  She said, “Tandoo, meet your nephew, George. He’s the sweetest little boy in the world and also very, very special. I’m going to tell him all about you.”

  The baby was gorgeous, and he had Katherine’s eyes. My eyes.

  Katherine looked at me through my computer screen and breathed, “I love you.” She grinned and kissed the baby’s hand. They both waved—and the screen went black.

  Tears shot out of my eyes.

  I played the video over and over again, each time feeling elated, connected, renewed, and yes, curious.

  Kath had said that George was very special. In what way? I was aching to see him, to hold him, and to know more. And I haven’t told this to anyone before now.

  I swear I will see Katherine again if it’s the last thing I ever do. That’s part of my plan for the future.

  And when I have more to tell, I promise I’ll confess all.

  Your sadder, smarter, and cautiously hopeful friend,

  Tandoori Angel

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  JAMES PATTERSON is the internationally bestselling author of the popular Confessions, Maximum Ride, and Witch & Wizard novels, as well as Homeroom Diaries and the highly praised Middle School, I Funny, Daniel X, Treasure Hunters, and Alex Cross series. His books have sold more than 300 million copies worldwide, making him one of the bestselling authors of all time. He lives in Florida.

  MAXINE PAETRO has also collaborated with James Patterson on the bestselling Women’s Murder Club and Private series. She lives with her husband in New York State.

  BOOKS BY JAMES PATTERSON

  FOR YOUNG ADULT READERS

  The Confessions Novels

  Confessions of a Murder Suspect (with Maxine Paetro)

  Confessions: The Private School Murders (with Maxine Paetro)

  Confessions: The Paris Mysteries (with Maxine Paetro)

  The Witch & Wizard Novels

  Witch & Wizard (with Gabrielle Charbonnet)

  The Gift (with Ned Rust)

  The Fire (with Jill Dembowski)

  The Kiss (with Jill Dembowski)

  The Maximum Ride Novels

  The Angel Experiment

  School’s Out—Forever

  Saving the World and Other E
xtreme Sports

  The Final Warning

  MAX

  FANG

  ANGEL

  Nevermore

  Nonfiction

  Med Head (with Hal Friedman)

  Illustrated Novels

  Homeroom Diaries (with Lisa Papademetriou, illustrated by Keino)

  Maximum Ride: The Manga, Vols. 1–7 (with NaRae Lee)

  Witch & Wizard: The Manga, Vols. 1–3 (with Svetlana Chmakova)

  For previews of upcoming books in these series and other information, visit

  confessionsofamurdersuspect.com, maximumride.com, and witchandwizard.com.

  For more information about the author, visit JamesPatterson.com.

  THE WITCH AND WIZARD ARE BACK.

  AND THEY’LL NEVER SEE

  THE END COMING.

  TURN THE PAGE FOR AN EXCITING SNEAK PEEK AT

  AVAILABLE DECEMBER 2014

  Chapter

  1

  Whit

  THERE’S BLOOD EVERYWHERE. Bright red pools of it on the gurney, and still there’s more gushing out, running in rivulets to the floor. It seems impossible that there could be a single drop left inside the little girl. Her face is obscured by a tangle of dark hair, but the skin I can see has gone gray and her breath comes in harsh, wet gasps.

  I rush to her side as the rookie attendant who brought her in retches in the corner. “Stabbed,” he heaves, barely getting out the words. “Multiple times.”

  “ Who—” I begin.

  “The Family,” he spits.

  I rip away the girl’s shirt to reveal the worst of the damage as Janine, a newly trained trauma nurse at City Hospital, presses her fingers to the thin little wrist.