Confessions of a Murder Suspect Read online

  On TV, Imbimbo continued on with his blather. But I wasn’t able to dismiss the next part quite so easily.

  “When the family’s eldest daughter, Katherine, died in a motorcycle crash in South Africa, her death was ruled suspicious at first.”

  I stood up, not sure I really wanted to have this wound reopened.

  “But the case was closed less than forty-eight hours later.”

  I started punching buttons on the remote.

  “And the most recent case was the quickly squashed scandal involving the disappearance of the Angels’ other teenage daughter, Tandoori, known as ‘Tandy’ to the few who have regularly interacted with this very sheltered child. Just a year ago, the girl was found—”

  I clicked the power button on the remote.

  But not before setting the DVR.

  Someday, I might be ready to watch that part.

  CONFESSION

  I clicked off the TV just in time. Those four words were enough. Too much.

  The girl was found.

  Had I been lost?

  Malcolm and Maud would have told the police that I was lost, I’m sure. But something told me I wasn’t. My mind was starting to feel like it was emerging from a fog, allowing me to trust something beyond the facts stored in my conscious mind. It was starting to allow me to trust my gut.

  And this is the truth my gut told me.

  I’d been found, but I hadn’t been lost, and I hadn’t been alone.

  I closed my eyes and lay down on the couch. I saw the ghostly face in my mind again, and this time I wasn’t scared of it. This time I didn’t pass out. I concentrated on it.

  His face wasn’t clear enough yet, and I couldn’t tell how old he was. But I could remember now how desperately I had wanted to be with him. Passionately, you might even say. I think I would have done anything for him to help me get out of the prison. The prison that was my life.

  We were escaping.

  He had promised me freedom. And I’d tasted it—I could almost taste it now. I had flashes of his fingers interlacing with mine. Leaving under cover of dark. Looking at the stars together. Spooning together in the backseat of his car. Laughing as he tried to educate me about all the pop music on his iPod, and then enjoying long, peaceful stretches of classical music when I switched over to satellite radio. We even started compiling a sound track for our getaway.

  It seemed so easy. So perfect.

  We were headed for Canada, and we got as far as a McDonald’s in northern New York State, where we stopped for breakfast at dawn, snuggling into the same side of a booth. I’d never been to a McDonald’s in my life. I remember being happy at the thought of how enraged Malcolm would be to see me there, and thinking I had the whole world—the real world—ahead of me.

  Until the place was stormed by bunch of thugs.

  I had made two mistakes: not being a hundred percent aware of my surroundings at all times, like I usually was, and seating myself on the outside edge of the booth. So that when they came for me, I was easily yanked out.

  In my mind’s eye, I can’t see his face as I was being torn away from him forever. But I can feel his arm around my waist and his hand clutching at my sweater to hold me to him. I can hear his voice shouting: Tandy, they can’t do this. They can’t keep you away from me. They can’t keep you in a cage. Don’t let them.

  And his last words: I’ll come back for you.

  But he never did.

  My last sight of him was a view of his hunched-over back as he was shoved into an Escalade. And as I screamed his name and tried to fight off my captors, I saw who was supervising the whole operation from just a few paces away: Uncle Peter.

  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 Headmast
er 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.”

  Mr. Thibodaux looked surprised. “You’re out of line, Mr. Angel.”

  “We’re out of line?” Harry said. “All Saints has been paid for our attendance for the full term, sir. We have every right to be here.”

  One of our classmates, Gabrielle Harvey, was sitting close enough that I could see her roll her eyes dramatically toward another student, Colin Baxter, who was approaching Harry from behind.

  I yelled, “Harry, watch out!”

  Colin slowly cocked his fist, and Harry spun around just as Colin let his punch fly, hitting Harry square on the jaw. Harry went down, and Colin stood over him, shouting, “Get out of here, you crybaby creep! Get out of our school, mother killer!”

  That’s when Hugo stepped in.

  He growled, lowered his head, and butted Colin Baxter right in the belly. Colin sucked at the air and went down hard. He couldn’t catch his breath, and I thought maybe his gut had ruptured.

  And that’s when things got extremely out of hand.

  As Colin got his wind back, he began to wail—which resulted in a bunch of kids screaming for no reason, like they thought someone had just pulled out a lethal weapon or something.

  In a sense, I guess we had: Hugo.

  As Harry struggled to his feet Hugo ran whooping around the loft as though he’d just scored a touchdown at the Meadowlands.

  “Everyone, please stop!” Mr. Thibodaux yelled.

  But no one did.

  I had never loved my brothers more.

  Mr. Thibodaux was digging in his breast pocket for his phone. “Make no mistake—you will be charged with assault!” he shouted at Hugo.

  “We’re cutting class today,” I said to our formerly esteemed headmaster. “Thank you for your help and your concern, Mr. Thibodaux. It’s been a comfort to us in our time of need.”

  70

  Harry went straight to his studio at Lincoln Center to burn off some steam, but Hugo walked home with me. As we passed a corner bodega, he stopped in his tracks.

  “Hey, Tandy,” he said. “Let’s do something crazy.”

  “What?” I asked, baffled. I was more than a little worried about all of Hugo’s newfound anger and how he was planning to channel it.

  “Come in here,” he said, dragging me into the bodega. “Let’s get something we were never allowed to eat at home.”

  And that’s how we ended up back at the Dakota, eating a box of instant macaroni and cheese for lunch at about 10:30 AM.

  “This is vile,” I commented, reading the ingredients on the package. “I have to agree with Malcolm and Maud on this one. Like they always said, ‘You are what you eat….’ ”

  So, what was I, then? What were my brothers? What was my sister Katherine before she was run down in Africa? What were the ingredients in our father’s pills?

  Not knowing what I’d been swallowing every night for the whole of my life made me question every single thing about myself, down to the size of my feet and the length of my eyelashes.

  “So what do we do now?” Hugo asked me.

  “Want to help me with my investigation?” I asked him in response.

  I didn’t have to ask twice.

  I grasped the key to my father’s home laboratory, which I’d hung from a cord around my neck, and slid it back and forth. I planned to keep the key with me until I had searched Malcolm’s lab and computer and found out precisely what the pills were made of and what their side effects were.

  I opened the laboratory door and hit the lights. Hugo scooted past me, opened a small refrigerator, and took out a bottle of lemonade. I figured he’d been spying on Malcolm for so long that he knew where everything was in this place.

  “What did Matthew tell you about this operation?” I asked Hugo.

  “Don’t make me snitch on Matty,” Hugo said. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. Whatever they are, whatever they do, I like my pills. I’m going to keep taking them. I don’t want to change. I like myself the way I am.”

  I had to laugh. I liked him, too.

  “We don’t know what the long-term effects are,” I said, moving toward the computer.

  “The short-term effects are that I whooped Colin Baxter’s butt. He’s not going to mess with any of us ever again.”

  “Either that or the next time he runs into you, he’ll be armed.”

  “Oh,” Hugo said. “Good point.”

  The computer was still on and its documents still open, just as Harry had left it. I went directly to the memo file and skimmed many years’ worth of the back-and-forth exchange between Peter and Malcolm.

  One e-mail from Peter to Malcolm read: “Tried adding four RepX on 4/13. No sign of side effects. Will keep an eye out and increase three Genner2.0 to force results.”

  Malcolm’s response read: “Agreed. May decrease focus to increase Genner2.0, but can compensate with one Plav.”

  It was chilling to read how casually these “supplements” were discussed. My siblings and I were mentioned, but the memos weren’t explicit enough to tell me what I really wanted to know. After another two hours of document review, the question remained: What exactly were our pills made of, and what had they done to us? Could it be reversed?

  And if so,
was that what I wanted to happen?

  Being a “normal” girl had only gotten me into trouble before. Was I ready to try it again now that Malcolm and Maud were out of the picture? I trembled at the memory that was itching to be recognized, relived. My failed attempt at normalcy.

  One investigation of mine might be hitting a wall, I thought, but I knew exactly where I had to go to start confronting the mystery of my own history.

  I left the lab with Hugo in tow and shut the door behind us.

  “Hugo, I think I need to be alone for a little while now,” I told him. “Are you okay hanging out by yourself?”

  “Sure,” Hugo said. “Are you… okay?”

  I smiled. “Fine, Hugo. In fact, I think I’m about to have a breakthrough.”

  And I knew exactly where to start: that file in the cabinet I’d stumbled on earlier while searching Samantha’s room. The one labeled J.R.

  It was time to get real.

  71

  I would be lying to you if I didn’t say that it was very, very hard to go back to that filing cabinet, where I knew there could be reams of documents detailing things I wasn’t ready to face.

  So once I had the folder marked J.R. open, I took my time. Slowly, slowly, I leafed through the thick stack of pages of my own calligraphic replica of the poem “Maud,” one of several Big Chops I’d had to do after I ran away.

  I forced myself to read every word of the tortured, dense Victorian poem all over again. A delaying tactic. How much did I want to find what else Maud might have tucked into this folder?

  I could delay no further when a newspaper clipping fell out. Before I could read the headline, I saw a face in the accompanying photo.

  Now it was no longer a hazy face in my memory, struggling to come into focus. It was plain as day, the handsome face of the young man I’d run away with. Dark blond, longish, straight hair—and the smile that had in an instant taken me in. Won me over. Made me believe in him. In fact, it had been the only thing I believed in, for that short period of time: that he would save me. That we could save each other.