The Paris Mysteries (Confessions #3)(27)

After a particularly awkward Jacob-made dinner of watery quiche, canned peas, and grapes, I returned to my room and opened my laptop.

I had letters to write. It was damned well about time.





So my mother and father had been pretty much my entire world before I met James. They made the rules, handed out the Grande Gongos and the Big Chops, and jacked us up with illegal drugs. And then they died.

The evidence suggests that they drugged us to keep us on track to future success. But how had they ever thought we could survive in the world without the full use of our hearts?

I say I’d loved them, but was I capable of that?

Without overthinking, I wrote a letter to them on my laptop, letting the words flow from my fingertips:

Dear Mother and Father,

I have a few questions.

Mother, you know I admired you. But I don’t understand. Didn’t you want me to fall in love? Didn’t you want me to get married and have someone love me as much as Malcolm loved you?

Father, I wanted to be just like you. I followed you around and tried to learn everything you knew, because I thought you were the smartest man ever. So how could you use your children as lab animals? You couldn’t have known the long-term effects of those drugs. We still don’t know.

Did you know what really happened to Katherine? Do you know who killed her?

And here’s the big question for both of you, the one I really hate to ask: Did you love any of your children, really love us?

Your daughter,

Tandy





I felt sorry for myself, sure. And after the tears stopped leaking out of my eyes, I hit the delete key. A window popped up and asked, Are you sure you want to delete this e-mail?

Yes. I’m sure.

I turned off the light next to the bed, but I couldn’t stop thinking.

I don’t think I slept at all.





Overnight, my somber bottom-of-the-sea depression morphed into the foulest possible anger. Like a gathering squall about to break over a small island in the middle of the ocean.

I glared and grunted at breakfast, then got into the front seat of the house chariot with Monsieur Morel so I didn’t have to talk to anyone. When we disembarked fifteen minutes later at the convent school, I barked at Harry for walking on my heels.

He said, “Shut up, Tandy. Meet me at lunch. I’ve got something to tell you.”

At noon, I made it to the lunchroom before Harry did.

The Sisters of Charity didn’t have the kind of cafeteria we have in schools at home. Tables lined a windowed wall and were laden with baskets of bread, a kettle of clear soup, fruit and cheese, and compotes of pudding. I was suddenly ravenous.

When Harry showed up, we loaded up our trays and walked together to an empty table.

I was fully aware of the kids around us, with their racket reverberating through the big hall. They seemed so young to me, so innocent. Nothing like me or my brothers.

I dipped bread in my soup, and as I ate, I kept my eyes on Harry.

His face was flushed. His hair was wild. His glasses were seesawing on the bridge of his nose. He was elated and hyper, which stirred up my darker-than-dark mood.

Harry said, “You okay, Tandy?”

“Me? I’m fine.”

“Oh, right,” he said. “What do you call that toxic cloud right over your head?”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re lying. You know it. I know it. And you know—”

“So what do you want to tell me, Harry? I’m not asking you again.”

“I’m not going to tell you,” he said, “but I’m definitely going to show you. After school.”

I was this close to losing it, but my brother was on fire, and whatever had lit that little blaze, I had to go with it. I really couldn’t let him down.

With permission from Jacob, Monsieur Morel dropped Harry and me off at a tram that took us to Suresnes, a western suburb of Paris. Harry was still being a jerk, giggling, whistling through his teeth, as we walked to an address on Rue Honoré d’Estienne d’Orves.

I followed my brother up a couple of steps to an unmarked door that had been painted an attractive marine blue. He pressed an intercom button and said his name into the grille.

The door opened with a loud double click.

What the hell?

“Harry, where are we? Is this your studio?”

“Brace yourself, Tandy. As they used to say when the Beatles walked out onstage, your mind is about to be blown.”

Harry was one of the few kids in our generation who could get away with familiar references to the Beatles.

But then, Harry was named for George Harrison.





The mysterious blue door opened into a long, chilly hallway with awards and photos of recording superstars from several continents jam-packing the walls.

I recognized almost all the names and faces: CeeLo Green, Flo Rida, Celine Dion, Meshell Ndegeocello, Zazie, Adele, Selah Sue, and Sens Unik. And there were others, too many to count. I thought I could feel a vibration in those walls. But then, I was kind of a human tuning fork today.

I could feel everything, especially total awe that I was standing in a gallery of all-stars—and they had all probably come through the hallway where Harry and I were walking now.

I looked up as a door opened at the end of the hall and a tall man in black with dreadlocks and sunglasses came out.