The Paris Mysteries (Confessions #3)(30)

I reacquainted myself with his medical degree in pathology from Cornell, his early training at Pfizer, and a discovery he’d made in his thirties for a drug that relieved pain in patients with stomach cancer.

Then he’d gotten funding—no specifics on that—and started Angel Pharmaceuticals with his younger brother, my father, who was a statistician with a degree in pharmacology.

Everything else I found on Peter Angel was social. Namely, his bachelorhood, his famous dinner parties, his theatergoing and philanthropy. Pictures of him showed his characteristic flyaway hair and loud, expensive suits. Close-ups on his narrow, piggy eyes. One photo was taken at an after-theater dinner party at the Palm.

That photo at the Palm was a wide shot in a packed and narrow room. The light was golden, and I recognized the caricatures of celebrities on the walls and the giant slabs of steak in front of the diners.

But my eyes locked on something else.

There was a man sitting at the table behind Peter, someone I almost recognized. I read the caption under the photo. The name jumped out at me like a mugger in an alley. And there it was, another connection between Uncle Peter and our family enemy, my enemy in particular.

The man sitting at the table behind my uncle Peter was Royal Rampling.





I stared at the photograph that linked my uncle Peter and Royal Rampling, and I felt another mood come over me. A bad mood. Paranoia.

I reflected on that super-romantic night in the Hamptons when James and I were, without warning, nailed to the dunes by blinding headlights, then snatched and separated, each of us screaming the other’s name.

When I woke up—or more likely, regained consciousness—it was daylight. The van that had taken me was parked in the semicircular driveway of a sterile white building I later learned was a mental institution. I was dragged from the van, and for weeks after that, I was treated with talk, drug, and electric-shock therapy that together practically rewired my brain.

I forgot about James. Forgot I ever knew him.

And I forgot the faces of the men in the van.

Suddenly, a new memory crept into my brain… one that I hadn’t recalled before.

I remembered a man who stood by and watched as I was wrestled into the building, just after the hood was taken off my head. I saw his features now with a clarity I could hardly believe. I saw the messy ginger hair, got a glimpse of narrow, colorless eyes. It was my uncle Peter. Damn him.

It wasn’t paranoia if my uncle Peter had his fingers in the pie. Make that a hand. No, make that both hands, and maybe he’d even masterminded the whole criminal kidnapping affair for my parents.

That frightening thought only made me question Peter’s older brother more, the brother Peter had called in to watch over the Angel kids.

Yes. Uncle Peter had hired Jacob.

True, Jacob had put us back together and practically hand-carried us to our grandmother’s house and our inheritance.

But why had Peter turned us over to Jacob? Because he couldn’t be bothered being our guardian? Or because Jacob was an undercover agent?

More questions without answers.

I got up from my computer, pushed a slipper chair across the floor, and wedged its back under the doorknob. I double-checked the locks on the windows and drew the curtains. When I was sure no one could get in, I got into bed and opened my laptop.

I had a letter in mind. I addressed it to my uncle Peter.





I couldn’t write the word Dear in front of his name. I didn’t even want to call him my uncle. He wasn’t family to me anymore.

I hated him more than anyone I’d ever known, and that put him at the top of a list of supremely heinous people.

Peter had not just been a saboteur and a dark presence to all of us because he could get away with it; he had sunk below my lowest expectations when he wrote those pervy letters to Katherine.

The letters were apologetic.

What had Peter done to Katherine when he wasn’t writing to her? I wrote:

Peter,

I read what you wrote to Katherine, and it made me sick. How could you have designs on a child? I have a sickening feeling that I don’t know even a fraction of the evil you have done. You’re a psychopath. A real-life monster.

Be warned, I’m onto you. I’m investigating you, and when I uncover your criminal activities, I will take action.

Tandoori Angel





I had Peter’s e-mail address. I could have easily sent this bomb right to his in-box, but I didn’t do it.

I had two reasons.

One, all he would do was laugh.

Two, I didn’t want to tip him off. If Peter had anything to do with Katherine’s death, I wanted to nail him.

I hit the delete key.

Of course, the program asked, Are you sure you want to delete this e-mail?

Yes. I’m sure. Damn him.

Delete.





I woke to the sound of Jacob screaming.

Jacob never screams.

I realized I had fallen asleep, fully clothed, with my shoes on, so I ran downstairs in yesterday’s school clothes to the sound of Uncle Jake shouting at the top of his lungs in his guttural mother tongue.

I didn’t know what time it was, only that it was dark outside the windows and that a pool of light filled the downstairs area at the bottom of the staircase.

When I reached the landing above the foyer, I saw a bunch of kids, maybe ten of them, most a few years older than Harry and me. They were in various stages of dress and undress, and from the lazy way they were stumbling around, I was sure they were stoned.