The Paris Mysteries (Confessions #3)(35)

Harry was glowing. The colors of his shimmering jacket picked up every glint of light. He looked ethereal, my angel brother.

The club filled quickly with beautiful people in amazing clothes. Adele and her entourage swept in and then, unbelievably, Beyoncé and Jay Z were there. Techno music pounded, and between the dancing and shouting over the music, I wasn’t sure if Harry had even seen me.

But he had. Before he was pulled away by people who wanted to touch him, shake his hand, become part of his future, Harry came to me. He grabbed me and hugged me really tight.

He spoke over the noise, right into my ear, saying, “I love you, Tandy. And no, I’m not using the filthy drugs. This is all me. This is what we’re capable of.”





I woke up coughing and swamped by heart-pounding, gut-heaving panic. I heard a low roar that meant nothing to me, but I did know that the world had gone extremely wrong and if I didn’t get a grip on it soon, I was going to die.

My lungs burned, that was a clue. They burned like I’d breathed in acid. I couldn’t draw in a real breath. All I could do was cough and gag. Tears poured out of my eyes, rivers of tears, and it was dark. I couldn’t see anything.

But I smelled perfume. Another clue. And I remembered that I was in Gram Hilda’s attic workroom, where I’d gone after we’d come home from the concert. I must have fallen asleep on the floor.

But now I was not just panicked, I was disoriented.

I couldn’t see the windows in her atelier, and most definitely not the door.

I was blind.

No. It was smoke, the blackest, densest smoke imaginable, the kind that meant that the fire wasn’t in my lungs. The house was burning and must have been for a while for the air to be completely opaque behind a closed door on the top floor. Now that I understood my situation, I was terrified.

We could all die.

I have to wake everyone up.

Harry’s bedroom was on the floor below me. So was Jacob’s.

I had a flash of clarity in which I knew certain things. That I was supposed to crawl to the door, get under the layer of smoke, where the air was cleaner and cooler. I was supposed to feel the door, and if it was hot, it meant that the fire was right outside and I had to reverse course and go—where?

I was feeling faint. I only had a few seconds before I passed out—and most of those precious seconds were gone.

Where is the door?

I felt the edges of the Persian carpet with my fingers, and, still hacking and retching, I inched on my belly toward where the door might be. I bumped into furniture. Heavy things fell all around me. But I found the door.

Not so fast, Tandy.

The door was scorching hot, and I could hear the snapping and crackling of wood burning on the other side.

That’s when I forgot what I was supposed to do. I was running out of air, out of ideas, out of motivation. Heat was radiating around me on all sides, and fire flickered in the gap under the door.

I couldn’t stand or get to my knees, so I rolled toward the middle of the room. But I had no plan. I was cooked.

Death by fire is supposed to be the worst death of all. Burning nerves, tens of thousands of them, shoot excruciating pain to every minute part of the body, and you just can’t die fast enough.

I thought of Joan of Arc. I thought of ships burning at sea. Skyscrapers on fire. People jumping to their deaths rather than burning.

Flames licked under the door, looking for the next thing to eat.

Gasping, feeling the scorching heat on my skin, I covered my face with my arm and thought about my brothers and Jacob and hoped to God they’d all gotten out alive.

It was too late for me.

I was praying, “Please, God, let me die quickly,” when there was a loud crash as the burned door, almost consumed by the blaze, fell into the room.

Flames bounded toward me. The leaping fire was ecstatic now that it had been set free. The room was blazing. Red light licked the walls and was going for the ceiling when someone burst through the door frame, urgently calling my name.

I recognized his voice. James.

I couldn’t call to him. I was too far away, at the end of the tunnel, turning my face to the light.

And then I was lifted up. My cheek was on his shoulder. He said, “I’ve got you, Tandy. We’re going to be okay.”

That’s all I remember.

James came through for me when it mattered.

He saved my life.





A shock jolted me into consciousness. I mean, like electricity shooting straight through my brain. It was not just a heinous invasion of my private thoughts, but a terrifying buzzing sound, like a blender turning my brain to mush.

I still couldn’t see.

But I knew the abrasive feel of harsh cotton sheets on my naked body. I knew the stinging smell of antiseptic in my nostrils, the squealing rattle of rolling carts outside the room, and the squeaking of rubber-soled shoes on composite flooring. I knew all of that by heart.

I was at Fern Haven.

How could James have brought me here?

A dark thought occurred, darker than a black sucking hole in the universe.

Have I ever left Fern Haven?

Had I fantasized an entire year of school and my parents’ deaths and Matthew’s trial and all the crimes that had closed in around us in New York, cases that I had solved?

Did I make up going to Paris?

Had I been tripping at Fern Haven for… the entire time?