Confessions: The Private School Murders

by James Patterson

  Nice.

  “Thank you for your truthful testimony, Hugo.”

  “But I don’t think he would tell me if he did it,” Hugo added.

  It was all I could do not to cover my face with my hands. Of all the amazing traits Hugo had been born with, brevity couldn’t have been one of them?

  Phil paused, probably considering whether there was anything he could say to nullify Hugo’s afterthought. Then the moment passed.

  “Thank you, Hugo,” he said. “You may step down.”

  I almost collapsed in relief when Hugo climbed down out of the witness stand without saying another word and walked across the courtroom floor.

  But before he went through the gate, Hugo veered off, ran to Matthew, and threw himself on top of him. Matthew held him as best he could with his cuffed wrists, and both of them cried—Matthew silently, Hugo like a calf being led to the slaughterhouse.

  “I’m sorry, Matthew! I just want you to come home!” Hugo cried. “Are they gonna let you come home?” All around the gallery, people gasped and tsked.

  I jumped up, but the judge slammed down the gavel and the bailiff yanked Hugo off Matthew. He held Hugo firmly by the arm and marched him out of the courtroom.

  That, my friend, is what I call a really bad day.

  And it wasn’t over yet.

  50

  Hugo was still crying his great big heart out when we got to the street. He turned his face up to me and wailed, “I’m such a traitor! I hate myself!”

  “You’re not a traitor,” I told him. “You did what you had to do. You swore to tell the truth and you did it.”

  Jacob hailed a taxi, and when reporters began to stampede toward us, I fended them off with a stony “No comment.”

  I must have looked fierce. Or insane. Either way, it worked.

  Harry got into the cab first, then Hugo, then me, while Jacob held the door and stared down the press. Jacob took the front seat next to the driver, and the cab shot away from the curb, headed uptown. I put my arms around Hugo, and he buried his face in my coat. Harry sat with his forehead pressed up against the grimy window, deflated. I knew the feeling. I was so grateful that I hadn’t known about Matthew’s knife or threats against Tamara. I was so glad I hadn’t had to take the stand like my poor brothers.

  We were on the move, but as we left Lower Manhattan, reporters who’d been rebuffed on Centre Street put out the word that we were heading north so that by the time we got to the Dakota, there was a mob waiting for us.

  Jacob spoke to the cabdriver in Arabic, and the cabbie drove us around to the back entrance. My doorman friend, Sal, opened the back door and locked it behind us. He tousled Hugo’s hair as we huddled inside the hallway. Hugo cracked a half smile, which made me feel a million times better.

  Once inside our apartment, we peered out the windows at the shifting crowd on Seventy-Second Street. Soon whooping sirens came from two directions and cops piled out and dispersed the throng.

  Relief at last.

  Harry turned on the lights in the apartment and took Hugo to their rooms to get ready for dinner while Jacob and I went to the kitchen. Jacob had thrown something into the slow cooker before we left for court that morning, and he stirred our hot dinner as I set the table. Jacob poured a glass of wine for himself, then poured a smaller glass for me.

  “To surviving the day,” I said.

  “L’chaim,” he said. “Do you know what that means?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Of course. It’s Hebrew for ‘to life.’ ”

  My brothers appeared wearing pajamas and white terry-cloth robes, their faces pink from hot showers.

  Fittingly, they looked like angels.

  My eyes welled with tears as I sat with our stripped-down little family. Our mother, father, and big sister were in the ground, our big brother was locked up, our uncle was God knows where. But we were in the capable charge of a mysterious man we’d met less than a week ago.

  Jacob had made a tasty pot of chicken, rice, and beans, and soon we started to loosen up and chat—not about Matthew, but about easy things, like school, and movies, and Harry’s next concert. Jacob’s meal was exactly what we needed—comfort food.

  I thought he might just be the best friend we’d ever had.

  51

  As we cleared the table, Harry signaled that he wanted a private word with me. We went around to the alcove where the absolutely lifelike, museum-quality sculpture known as Robert sat in his recliner, watching the staticky TV, beer can in hand. I tasted bile in the back of my throat, remembering that awful woman Uncle Pig had brought in here to put a price on Robert’s head, like she had a right to all our stuff.

  “What’s up?” I asked Harry.

  “I want to give this to Hugo.”

  Harry held a small statue in his hand: a crystal seal perched on a marble stand, clapping its front flippers. The Seal of Approval had been awarded to Harry by my parents for a piano recital in which he’d performed best in class. I knew it was one of his most prized possessions—one of the few signs of their approval Malcolm and Maud had ever shown him—and it meant a lot for him to give it up.

  “Wow, Harry,” I said, squeezing his shoulder. “Excellent idea.”

  We returned to the table as Jacob dished up ice cream in huge, deep bowls.

  “Let’s have a family meeting,” he suggested.

  We took our dessert into the living room, and when we were all comfortable, Jacob said, “I’m so proud of the three of you. And you know what? Your gram Hilda would be proud of you, too.

  “I knew her, you know, and I know people who knew her. Let me tell you about your grandmother.”

  Hugo, Harry, and I exchanged an intrigued look. Jacob had actually known the grande dame of our psychotic little family? This was exactly what we needed. We kicked back with our ice cream, our feet up on the coffee table.

  “Ready!” Hugo announced, shoveling a huge spoonful of chocolate-chip ice cream into his mouth.

  “She was quite a character,” Jacob told us. “She was sparkling and witty and, as you kids would say, fierce. Hilda dressed beautifully and journeyed far and wide, by herself, long before it was considered proper for women to travel alone.

  “I heard once that she had been imprisoned in Egypt. She was found guilty of some infraction. Perhaps she’d had the audacity to smoke a cigarette, who knows? That part of the story has been lost.

  “At any rate, the family legend is that when her jailer came to bring her something to eat, she advanced on him and hit him with her shoe. And he was so taken aback—or afraid—that he just let her out.”

  “Nice,” I said with a laugh.

  “Go, Gram!” Hugo said, impressed.

  “She had what some would call a secret life,” Jacob continued. “For instance, although she lived in New York, she had a house in Paris, and she used to go there in the spring without telling anyone when or how long she’d be away. She was a very romantic woman, and she didn’t talk about her time abroad. At the same time, she had high ideals. I know your gram Hilda would be very proud of every one of you.”

  I could see my grandmother in my mind, her hair upswept, wearing pearls and a long pale dress with a tiny belted waist. She was going up a stone walk. In my imagination, she looked determined and joyful, elegant and strong.

  “Really?” Hugo said hopefully. “Even after today?”

  “Especially after today,” Jacob said.

  Hugo smiled and sat back with his ice cream while Harry ruffled his hair.

  “Hugo, Tandy and I want to give you something,” Harry said. “Something we both think you deserve to have.”

  Harry took the glass-and-marble statue out of his pocket and handed it to Hugo.

  “I won this when I was your age,” he said with a smile.

  “The Seal of Approval? For me?” Hugo said, sitting up so fast his ice cream bowl almost slid off his lap. Luckily, Harry caught it just in time.

  Hugo turned the little trophy in his hands and
looked at it reverently from all angles. Then, holding it tightly, he said to us, “Thank you. This is awesome. I swear I’ll keep it safe.”

  Hugo beamed, and the rest of us beamed right back. Earlier today I’d been worried that he might go into a depression or something, like Matthew used to, but I could tell he was feeling better now, and I felt a lot lighter, just knowing he’d be okay.

  Whatever was waiting on the other side of this moment—and I stopped myself from enumerating the dozen bad things that could be lining up right outside our door—I knew I would never forget this precious evening at home, the four of us, together.

  I held on to that thought as I put Hugo to bed, pried the trophy out of his hands, and turned off his light. That was when my mind lurched and I thought of Matthew.

  How could I even consider being happy when my brother was in lockup, facing a lifetime in prison?

  52

  The following evening, Hugo was running a cutting-edge train simulator on his computer, showing Jacob how fast he could go in the system he’d designed, while I watched over their shoulders. On the screen, the virtual locomotive barreled through tunnels and towns, and suddenly I was shocked by a powerful memory. So shocked that I turned around and sat down on Hugo’s mattress on the floor, my head in my hands.

  Luckily, neither Hugo nor Jacob noticed. If they had, they might have rushed me right to a hospital, because suddenly I was shaking and sweating, and I was sure my skin had gone waxy pale.

  My memory had been coming back in fits and starts since I’d gone off the drugs, but this was different. This was like a crack had opened up inside my mind out of nowhere and real memories, sharp and true and pure, were spilling out everywhere.

  Take that, Dr. Keyes.

  I remembered walking out of school one sunny afternoon; I saw my favorite brown brogues against the stone steps as I jogged toward the sidewalk. My phone beeped, and I pulled it from my jacket pocket. My heart leapt. It was a text from James.

  Corner of 74th and West End. Meet me!

  I grinned, biting down on my bottom lip to keep from being too obvious. James and I had only been hanging out for about a month and were determined to keep our relationship private from the gossip girls at my school.

  I found James staring out at traffic, hands in his pockets, looking gorgeous in a Yankees T-shirt, denim jacket, and jeans. Everything bluer than blue, including his eyes.

  I was wearing a short, flippy brown skirt, a white cotton pullover, and a cut-velvet scarf. I’d used a new shampoo that morning, and my hair smelled like coconuts and rain.

  The memory was so vivid I could practically smell it, even sitting there in Hugo’s messy, sweat-sock-scented bedroom.

  I called out to James, and he spun around. He grinned when he saw me, and my heart began to beat against my rib cage like a spoon on a steel drum. I wanted to run, but I held myself to a cooler pace and walked casually across the street. He stretched his slim but strong arm around me and pulled me close.

  I swear every girl in a five-block radius turned green.

  “How was your day? Hope you didn’t daydream about me too much,” he said, giving me a quick kiss. “Actually, I take that back. I hope you did.”

  “You’re lucky I’m such a great multitasker. I can daydream about us together in Paris someday and take excellent notes,” I replied lightly. “So? What’re we doing?”

  “Wanna go for a walk?” he suggested.

  He glanced around us, as if checking to see whether anyone was watching. I realized for the first time that he was tense. His jaw was set, his eyes narrowed, and as I studied him, his cheek twitched.

  “Is everything okay?” I asked him tentatively.

  “Yeah. I just want to get moving,” he said, clasping my hand firmly. “Let’s go.”

  He tugged me across Seventy-Fourth Street, swinging our hands between us, but there was something forced about it. Rehearsed.

  And I started to feel—not scared exactly, because back then I didn’t feel fear—but curious. Concerned.

  I hoped he wasn’t doubting the concept of us. Because he was the best thing in my life by far. Maybe ever.

  As we hit the sidewalk on the opposite side of the street, I swallowed back my own potentially dangerous secret. I had made a mistake. A big one. The day before, I had told Maud about James—how amazing he was, how perfect we were together, and that I’d never been as blissfully happy as I was when I was with him.

  I’d even gone so far as to hope that my mother would be happy for me—excited that her only living daughter had fallen in love.

  But as it turned out, when I’m wrong, I’m really, really wrong.

  53

  My mother was in bed that Sunday morning, propped up against silk pillows reading the Times, when I slipped into the room.

  “Mom, there’s something I have to tell you,” I said, standing at the foot of the huge bed she shared with my father.

  She lowered the paper and folded her hands atop the pages. “You have my full attention.”

  “I’ve met someone,” I told her. “His name’s James Rampling and I think… actually, I know. I’m in love with him.”

  I pictured her beautiful face lighting up. Imagined her opening her arms for a huge hug. Conjured up what it might feel like to hug her back. To close my eyes and feel connected to her in a real way. In a mother-daughter way.

  But no.

  Instead, she stared at me with her lips pursed.

  “How?” she snapped. “How did this happen?”

  Then, while my mouth was still hanging open in disappointment, she got up, waving a hand at me not to answer, and left the room in her poppy-covered pajamas. Two minutes later, she and my father came back upstairs. My dad was already dressed in a cashmere sweater, the collar of a button-down shirt sticking out the top, and pressed pants. His standard Sunday attire.

  “Tandy, sit,” my father said, like he was talking to a dog. He pointed at the child-sized slipper chair near the fireplace. I did as I was told.

  “This is not love,” he began. “It’s infatuation. You are far too young to be in love.”

  “No, I’m not,” I argued. “Plenty of people fall in love in high school. Some people for life.”

  “You are not ‘some people.’ You’re an Angel,” my mother interjected. “We expect you to focus on your studies, and you can’t do that if this… person… is absorbing your attention and monopolizing your time.”

  “But I—”

  “And James Rampling!” my mother cried, throwing up her hands and looking at my father. “James Rampling? Of all people!”

  “But what do you know about—”

  “Don’t argue with your parents!” my father thundered. “We know what’s best for you.”

  I felt like I was on the verge of earning myself a Big Chop, so I bit down on my tongue. Screw my parents. If they didn’t want me to see James, fine. I’d already been doing it for a month without them knowing. I could just keep doing it.

  “And don’t even think about sneaking around behind our backs,” my father said. Again my jaw dropped. He shook his head. “Tandy, I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but there’s a good chance that Royal Rampling set this whole thing up—that he’s using his son to get to us. He could be trying to get close to you so that he can undermine the family business, the business that will be yours one day.”

  “Dad. Come on. Not everything is about the family business,” I said. “James and I are—”

  “This is not up for negotiation, Tandoori,” he snapped. “You will e-mail James and tell him that we forbid you to see him. You will not take his calls, you will not answer his texts. And if you see him on the street, you are to walk the other way. Do you understand?”

  End of discussion.

  I looked up into my parents’ eyes, and I knew for sure. If I didn’t comply, there was a Big Chop looming, and the last few Big Chops had been creative and brutal. Like Hugo’s punishing summer job in agricultural boot camp
, for example. I knew they were already devising what they’d do to me if I disobeyed. So I sat up straight and stared straight ahead.

  “I understand,” I said.

  But that didn’t mean I was going to follow their orders.

  Which takes me back to the most crucial turning point in my life so far. James and me, walking down West End Avenue, hands clasped between us.

  “My father overheard me talking to you on the phone,” James said. “He kind of freaked out when I told him about you.”

  “Shocker,” I said quietly.

  “He started going off about how your parents are criminals and he won’t let them get their hooks into me,” James continued, looking ahead toward the next traffic light.

  “Criminals?” I repeated.

  James nodded, squeezing my hand. “He warned me that if I keep seeing you, he’ll cut me off. Trust fund. College fund. Everything. And that if I disobey him, I’ll be very sorry. I know him, Tandy. He’s ruthless. But I’m not giving in to him. There’s no way I’m giving you up.”

  The way James looked at me, I knew he meant it. I paused at the next corner.

  “My parents threatened me, too. They said I had to cut off all contact with you,” I told him.

  He lifted our hands and kissed the back of mine. “How’s that working out for you?”

  I smirked but then rolled my eyes. “It’s like we’re living in a police state.”

  “We are,” he replied, his blue eyes going serious. “We’ve always been prisoners. All that matters to them is them. They couldn’t care less about what we think or feel.”

  “Well, that’s stating the obvious,” I said with a wry smile.

  He took a deep breath, still solemn. “What if we escaped?”

  “What do you mean, escaped?” I asked, intrigued.

  “You know.” He leaned toward me, his eyebrows arching. “Ran away.”

  Run away? I imagined what that might be like, and a tingle shivered through me: Being truly alone with James. Spending the night. Waking up in bed beside him. Making a real life for ourselves. Free from our parents’ cages.