Confessions of a Murder Suspect td-1 Read online

  “This is how Malcolm and Maud felt about us,” I said. “They trusted that we could shape our lives from this point on. That we could make our way.”

  Quoting what my mother had said only moments before she died just about killed me. I fell apart, blubbering and sobbing again.

  Harry stood and spoke over my sobs. “Our parents believed in working hard, and they taught us to earn everything we ever got. And now we finally understand that… that they did everything they did for us. It was all for us, right?” Harry looked around desperately. I nodded through my tears. He let out a huge sigh and covered his eyes with his hands. His shoulders shook and settled. He spoke again, adding, “Maud used to say, ‘I’ll sleep when I’m dead.’ Sleep well now, Mother and Father.” And he sat down.

  Hugo shot to his feet and flung himself across Malcolm’s coffin. He said, “Father, I forgive you for the biggest chop ever, ever, ever. I forgive both of you. Be good. No fighting. Buckle up and have a safe trip. We’ll always love and miss you.”

  86

  Two days later, we had all the windows open in our apartment in the Dakota.

  Harry had turned up his music—not classical this time—so that it came over the intercom in every room, really loud. The charging drumbeat and the bright guitar riffs cleansed the air and made me almost want to dance.

  Hugo was taking his baseball bat to the furniture in his room, which had been designed with some ordinary rich kid in mind—three big vintage toy cars with pedals, a make-believe rocket ship on a spring, and first-edition antique books that had never even been opened. All reminders of Angel wealth and perfection were quickly being decimated.

  There was a lot of food on the dining room table: chips and dips and Ding Dongs—junk my parents would have forbidden. But Malcolm and Maud had left us to soldier on without them. And this laugh-out-loud time was a beautiful start. We felt like actual kids.

  We were having a party. Our party. Just for us. We were finally grieving, in our own special way, as only Angels can.

  I took a bottle of soda with me into my parents’ room. Their valuables would be sold or auctioned off: the Aronstein flag, the South Sea pearls and the emerald ring, Mercurio and Robert, the Pegasus piano, the Pork Chair and the UFO light fixture.

  Before it was too late, I wanted to go through my parents’ less valuable things and find keepsakes for all of us.

  I put on the jacket that had belonged to my mother by way of Madonna. I hoped I’d be able to keep it.

  No, I was definitely going to keep it!

  Harry came into the closet and sat down next to me.

  “I’ve got Malcolm’s watch,” I said. “You want that?”

  “Okay.”

  “I saved a couple of things for Matthew and Hugo. Pictures. The wedding rings.”

  “I’m the one who called the cops,” Harry said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “That morning. Right after I found Malcolm and Maud dead. I thought one of us had done it. Still, I had to call the cops.”

  “Oh, Harry. Who was suspect number one on your list?”

  “Well, sister dear, you’d just gotten a Big Chop.”

  I laughed really hard, then said, “For a while, I thought you did it. You.”

  We were still grinning at each other when a shadow fell over us.

  I snapped my head around—a fear reflex, for sure. Virgil was standing there, absolutely huge in the doorway, looking down at us.

  “I’ve got the car ready downstairs. You know the house rule, kids: I’ve got to move the vehicle in ten minutes.”

  “Let’s move it,” I said.

  87

  The moon was high and full that night, and the water in Shinnecock Bay was the same gorgeous indigo blue as the sky. The Ponquogue Bridge stretched out before us, spanning the bay, its gleaming white arc making me think of the leading edge of an angel’s wing.

  Harry, Hugo, Virgil, and I were grouped together at the foot of the bridge, listening to the soothing sound of waves slapping against the shore.

  Then Hugo said, “Can we go?”

  We took off our shoes and rolled up our trouser legs, each of us carrying a plastic bag with one of our sharks inside. Their green bioluminescence made the bags glow like lanterns. It was absolutely magical.

  We stopped walking when the water was up to Hugo’s chest and floated the bags so that the temperature of the water within would equalize with that of the bay.

  It was completely quiet. Even Hugo was mesmerized into silence by the luminous, bobbing bags. But the sharks soon became restless. They banged into the sides of the bags and lashed their tails and frothed the water.

  They knew what was coming.

  Harry said, “I say that it’s time.”

  We undid the rubber bands and opened the mouths of the bags. My heart seemed to expand as the sharks left their cocoons and swam into the open water.

  Freedom. For real this time.

  We all pointed and called to one another, clapping and cheering as the sharks circled, then formed a school and headed south toward the vast, open Atlantic.

  A moment later their trail went dark, and suddenly the air and the water around me felt cold. I shivered and a million unanswered questions rose up and fluttered in my mind.

  What had been the truth about my father and Tamara Gee? Had Matthew killed Tamara? Would he be convicted of murdering her? How would Harry and Hugo deal with their anger? With the drug withdrawal? What would we be like without the pills?

  And of course there was a lot I would need to investigate about myself, too. I knew it wasn’t a coincidence that the man suing my mother had the same last name as the boy I ran away with. James Rampling was Royal Rampling’s son—that I knew. But what happened between the night I met James at the party and the day we escaped? Had James Rampling kidnapped me with ill intentions, or had he been my first genuine taste of love and freedom? And what on earth had happened to him after we were torn apart?

  Would I ever see, touch, or hold him again? Did I even want to?

  There are parts of those mysteries that I do remember, friend, fragments I’m still trying to work up the nerve to talk about. There are many more parts that I no longer remember, thanks to Dr. Keyes. But I know some places where I can start looking for answers.

  As I stood in the bay thinking about the future, the framed letter from Gram Hilda came into my mind. She had left my parents a hundred dollars and a stinging slap. How had she provided for the grandchildren who had not yet been born when she died?

  Would she leave us a Grande Gongo? Or would it be a Big Chop?

  The night my parents were found dead, Uncle Peter said to me, “After the reading of the will, we’ll see what the future will bring to the Angel family.”

  Uncle Peter was wrong. Money was not going to influence our ability to succeed in the world.

  The sharks had just amazed us. They had been confined for years and were now following their instincts, swimming together with strength and confidence out into the ocean.

  It was a good sign.

  In the last week, I had found my calling, what I was meant to do. I was going to be a detective. I might even have found mentors in Detectives Caputo and Hayes. I was surprisingly fond of them both, and I thought they felt the same way about me. They’d been unbelievably supportive and nice since they’d watched that video with us.

  I could even see a possible business card in my mind:

  TANDY ANGEL, DETECTIVE

  MYSTERIES SOLVED. CASE CLOSED.

  “What’s so funny?” Harry asked me.

  I looked up at my twin brother and said, “I was just thinking how much I love you guys.”

  At that, Hugo yelled, “Watch me!”

  He put his arms out in front of him, dove under the water, and stroked toward the shore.

  “Swim fast, die hard!” Harry hooted.

  “We’re both going to have to watch Hugo closely now. More than ever. And Matthew is going to need our
help.”

  “It’s a deal,” Harry said. “I’m in.”

  My brothers and I had grown closer over the last few weeks. We were still growing, still becoming. I felt sure we would stick together, whatever happened, wherever the currents might carry us.

  I really couldn’t wait to see what we would do next.

  And hey, it’s been good talking to you. Really good.

  JAMES PATTERSON was selected by readers across America as the Children’s Choice Book Awards Author of the Year in 2010. He is the internationally bestselling author of the highly praised Middle School books, I Funny, Confessions of a Murder Suspect, and the Maximum Ride, Witch & Wizard, Daniel X, and Alex Cross series. His books have sold more than 275 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.

  For more great reads and free samplers, visit

  www.LBYRDigitalDeals.com

  and join our communities at:

  Facebook.com/LittleBrownBooks

  Twitter.com/lbkids

  theNOVL.com

  BOOKS BY JAMES PATTERSON FOR YOUNG ADULT READERS

  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 Extreme Sports

  The Final Warning

  MAX

  FANG

  ANGEL

  Nevermore

  The Confessions Novels

  Confessions of a Murder Suspect (with Maxine Paetro)

  Confessions: The Private School Murders (with Maxine Paetro)

  Nonfiction

  Med Head (with Hal Friedman)

  Illustrated Novels

  Maximum Ride: The Manga, Vols. 1–6 (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 www.ConfessionsofaMurderSuspect.com, www.MaximumRide.com, and www.WitchAndWizard.com.

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

  “A FASCINATING STORY OF SECRETS AND DISCOVERY.”

  —Library Media Connection

  “Patterson and Paetro deliver a fast-paced mystery. The unconventional characters add tension and excitement to the story, as each child reacts to the murders in a different way.”

  —VOYA

  “[Tandy Angel] is not your grandma’s Nancy Drew.”

  —Kay Dyer, Look at OKC

  “The fun of searching through this onslaught of dysfunction for a workable motive and means can’t be beat, and readers will be drawn inexorably into Tandy’s world of paranoia and manipulation as they try to put the pieces together.”

  —The Bulletin

  “It was impossible to put the book down. For those of you who have yet to read one of Patterson’s fabled books, here is another chance to. The thrill is waiting.”

  —Enterteenment

  “The complex, clever plot keeps the pages turning as it wends its way to a surprising resolution and several cliffhangers.”

  —Common Sense Media

  “Confessions of a Murder Suspect was exactly what I was looking for.”

  —Emilie’s Book World

  “I loved this new Patterson work, and I can’t wait for the next one!”

  —Willa’s Ramblings

  “I was truly impressed by the setting and world created by Patterson, so much so, that I felt I was a part of the mystery. All in all, I think this was a great read and I can’t wait for the sequel. Everyone should give it a chance!”

  —Hinal, 17

  “This was the most ‘raw’ of James Patterson’s teen novels, and I can’t wait for more!”

  —Jessica, 16

  DELVE DEEPER INTO THE

  ANGEL FAMILY MYSTERIES IN

  CONFESSIONS

  THE

  PRIVATE SCHOOL MURDERS

  Coming October 2013

  Turn the page for a sneak peek

  and even more confessions.

  1

  It hasn’t been all that long since my last confession, but I already have so much to tell you. Fair warning: Most of it isn’t very pretty.

  My story starts with the catastrophic deaths of Malcolm and Maud Angel. They weren’t just those wealthy New York socialites you read about in the New York Times.

  They were my parents. Dead. They died in their bed under freakish circumstances three months ago, leaving my brothers and me devastated and bankrupt.

  Not to mention under suspicion of murder.

  We were eventually cleared of the crime—once I uncovered key evidence in the case. So, my friend, what do you think are the chances of another shocking, grisly crime happening in my life? Oh, about a hundred percent, and I can say that with total confidence.

  Because it’s already happened.

  My brother Matthew has been charged with killing his twenty-four-year-old actress girlfriend, Tamara Gee, and her unborn child. Just to make things that much more scandalous, after my parents’ death Tamara announced to the press that she had been sleeping around—with my father.

  Good times.

  That brings me to today, which really isn’t the best time to be reminiscing about the past. I had to put on a positive face for Matthew, whom I had come to visit.

  In prison.

  Deep inside the infamous New York City jail known (for good reason) as The Tombs, I held my breath as a beefy guard led me down a long gray cinder-block hallway that was pungent with the reek of urine and male sweat and deposited me in a folding chair outside a Plexiglas cell.

  “Wait.”

  So I did. And immediately I began to nervously toy with the buttons on my peacoat. Matthew’s trial was set to begin in just a few days, and I was here to bring him bad news. His so-called airtight alibi for the night of Tamara’s murder had just completely imploded. I felt sick to my stomach just thinking about what could happen to him and, in turn, what might happen to what was left of our family.

  My hands were shaking. I used to be the picture of calm in any and all situations, but these days I was feeling so raw that it was hard to remember how the numbing pills my parents had given me every day of my life kept my emotions in check.

  I heard the echo of footsteps approaching from somewhere behind the concrete walls. Still no Matthew. Hinges squealed and metal scraped against stone. A door slammed shut and locked. Each sound was more hopeless than the last.

  Finally the door at the back of the Plexiglas cell opened, and Matthew shuffled in with a uniformed guard right behind him.

  You might remember when Matthew Angel won the Heisman, how he bounded up onto the stage with a selfsatisfied grin and lifted the heavy trophy over his head while camera flashes popped. Maybe you’ve seen him returning kickoffs for the New York Giants, spiking the ball in the end zone and raising his fist to the sky. At the very least, you probably know him as the dude in the soup commercial. Matthew Angel has always been the guy every Pop Warner grade-schooler wants to be: a heroic rock-star jock, all muscles, smiles, and thoroughbred speed. A football god.

  That person was now unrecognizable. Matthew had been transformed into a brooding hulk in an orange jumpsuit, wrists cuffed to a chain around his waist, shackles around his ankles.

  My formerly cocky brother was too embarrassed and miserable to even look at me as the guard put a heavy hand on his shoulder and forced him into a chair.

  My eyes filled with tears. It was a feeling I was still getting used to.

  Matthew managed a half smile, then leaned close to the grill that was set into the glass wall. �
��Hey, Tandy. How’re you? How’re the guys?”

  Our brothers, Harrison and Hugo. Even in the throes of this misery, Matthew was thinking about them. About me. One tear spilled over. I wiped it away before he could look up and detect any weakness.

  I took a deep breath. “Matthew, there’s something I have to tell you.”

  2

  “It’s about your friends, Matty,” I said through the grid.

  “The ones who swore they were playing poker with you when Tamara was killed. They say they lied to protect you, but now they’ve had some kind of crisis of conscience. They told Philippe they’re not going to lie under oath.”

  I held my breath and waited for the inevitable explosion. While Matthew had a polished and shiny rep in public, we inside the Angel family knew that at any given moment he could go nuclear. Prone to violent outbursts was the clinical phrase.

  But today my brother simply blinked. His eyes were heavy with sadness and confusion.

  “I might have done it, Tandy,” he finally mumbled. “I don’t know.”

  “Matthew, come on!” I blurted, panic burbling up inside my chest. “You did not kill Tamara.”

  He leaned in closer to the grid, his hand flattened against the glass so that his palm turned white. “The guys are telling the truth, Tandy. We only played poker for a couple hours. I wasn’t with them at the time when the medical examiner says Tamara was killed.”

  I pressed my lips together as hard as I could to hold back my anger. Not to mention my confusion and abject terror. “What? Where did you go?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t even know. Some bar? I got hammered and somehow made it home. It’s pretty much a blur.” He pressed the heels of his hands into his temples and sucked in a breath before continuing. “All I know is that I got into bed with her, and when I woke up, she was dead. There was blood all over me, Tandy. Blood everywhere. And I have no memory of what happened before that.”