The Paris Mysteries (Confessions #3)(33)

“While they were gone, Monsieur Angel told me of an extraordinary opportunity for our boys, saying they could have better lives than we could give them. He said he would supply the pills—‘harmless herbal supplements’ that could raise the boys’ intelligence and other things I don’t even want to remember.”

But Monsieur Cordeaux couldn’t forget. He stopped speaking and lowered his head. Jacob looked as stricken as Monsieur Cordeaux, and I felt that vortex sucking me down again. What had those harmless supplements done to the Cordeaux children? And were they the so-called vitamins my sibs and I had been given?

Monsieur Cordeaux began to speak again. He said that Peter offered money for the children’s education and that he and Emmanuelle had agreed to put their boys in the program. With Peter’s own niece taking the pills, they were obviously safe.

“They did become smarter,” Monsieur Cordeaux told me. “They each had a different regimen of pills, and they each became superior in a different way. The day Laurence picked up a young horse, mon dieu. We were… astonished.

“But then they began to age rapidly, even after we stopped giving them pills.”

Monsieur Cordeaux looked at the pictures on the mantel, then got up and straightened the little shrine to his sons’ memory. Jacob asked him if he could continue, and the bereaved father nodded and returned to his chair.

“There was nothing to do for them, Mademoiselle Tandoori. They withered. And after long illnesses, they died. Our pleas to the Angel company went unanswered. We are poor people, and they simply shut us out. Our feeble lawsuits died as our boys had died.

“Our boys had been perfect just as they were,” he said. “We blame ourselves for ever believing that man. Your uncle. He took everything we loved.”

He looked up with his sad, tear-reddened eyes and showed me the palms of his empty hands.

“He left us with nothing.”





We had been with Monsieur and Madame Cordeaux for only an hour, but because the visit had come with long and twisted strings attached to two families, it seemed that I had known them for years.

I felt the most sickening shame and grief, for Emmanuelle and étienne Cordeaux and for the deaths of their three innocent children. I couldn’t hide from the devastating knowledge that Peter had found this family and seduced the parents with money and my sister Katherine’s charm.

And I couldn’t help also worrying that my brothers and I had been permanently harmed by the pills.

As we drove back to Paris, Jacob explained that he had begun looking into our family years ago, to find out who his long-lost brothers were. Much of what he had learned was so disturbing, he had kept his distance until recently.

I asked Jacob, “Did Malcolm and Maud know about those boys?”

“I don’t know about Maud, Tandy,” he said. “Malcolm had access to all the data at Angel Pharmaceuticals. From what I’ve learned over the years, the Cordeaux boys weren’t the only guinea pigs. I’ve met other families, even a few survivors.”

“And?”

“Some seemed to thrive. You and your siblings, for instance. Others, as étienne said, aged fast. They died. I have theories, but no actual proof of who knew and did what. Not yet.”

More shame washed over me. Tears rolled down my face, and I was so bereft, I didn’t lift a finger to wipe them away. I’d mistrusted Jacob, and I’d been wrong. It was absolutely clear that he really was trying to protect us.

I found a tissue in my pocket. I took a moment, and then I asked, “Were all the experiments on children?”

“Yes. A lot of the kids were multiples.”

Sure. In an experiment, you have a guinea pig and a control subject to compare it with. If I got the pills, maybe Harry only got placebos. Was that why my twin brother was not athletic, not intellectual, actually nothing like me or Hugo or Matty or Katherine?

Has Harry been taking placebos all along?

Was this the real reason our parents had never had any interest in him?

“The boxes in the basement,” I said.

“I put them there for safekeeping. I hired the detective to follow Katherine. He took those photos of her in Paris. I was trying to watch out for her, Tandy, but I failed. God help me. I failed.”

Jacob and I were both depressed beyond words when we got back to Gram Hilda’s house.

Harry was in the big, spotless kitchen with its painter’s view of the rose garden. He was making a big, meaty sandwich for himself, and I was struck by how young he looked, how shiny and untouched by anything gross or ugly or bad.

“Heyyyyy,” he called out to Jacob and me. “Guess who’s performing live tonight? Guess. Never mind. It’s me.”





I was in Harry’s bedroom watching him freak out. He was hyper and totally unfocused. In short, he was a red-hot mess.

He was going through drawers, tossing garments over his shoulder, saying, “Michael—my agent—”

“Tall guy. Dreads. I met him, remember?”

“Okay, yeah. Michael called me like a minute before you walked in the door. He sounded weird.”

Harry found a pair of tight black jeans. He hopped around getting them on while I waited to hear what was weird.

“He’d been negotiating but told me not to hope too much, you know? And then everything went out of control really fast…”