The Paris Mysteries (Confessions #3)(38)

“The formulas were in her book, Uncle Jake. My dad and Peter had to have found them after Gram Hilda died.”

“Possible,” Jacob said. He said it a couple more times. He was listening to me intently, and he looked sad. He said, “I hate to say this about my own brother, but if the products were dangerous according to Hilda, that wouldn’t have stopped Peter. Not if he saw big money at the end of the day.”

“I don’t think he has any limits, Uncle Jake. He experimented on children in his own family. He’s capable of anything. Are we just going to wait for him to get us? Are we?

“Because I really can’t go along with that.”





I was awake all night long, listening to a variety of alien sounds coming from above and beneath me in the hotel, as well as street noises that got louder as morning came on.

While my brothers and Jacob slept in the suite next door, I dressed fast and left the hotel. I was living in an Alice in Wonderland world where up was down and down was sideways and converging roads were consumed in fire.

I needed to clear my head.

I walked fast on Rue Clément Marot, shifting my eyes everywhere. I was a couple of blocks from the Champs-élysées, but I had no destination in mind. I was just moving my legs and hoping that an answer to “What should we do now?” would jump into my head.

And then it did.

The answer was dead simple. Paris was over. We’d gotten the best of this city, and it had nothing left for us. Not when someone was trying to kill us all, even Hugo. We had to get on a freaking plane, and I wasn’t even going to ask permission from Jacob.

I dodged foot traffic and made phone calls as I walked. I got routed to phone queues. I spoke to people who had to transfer my call, and I was put on hold many times.

But I did it.

We were booked on a private plane that would depart that night for the United States. Jacob would have to transfer funds and school transcripts, and he’d also have to handle Harry, who would probably go bug-nuts.

As I detailed possible living arrangements in New York, the to-do list grew.

I was crossing a street when, without warning, someone grabbed my arm from behind.

It was a shock right through my heart. I pulled back, and as I opened my mouth to scream, I faced my attacker, expecting to see a brutish thug sent by Royal Rampling.

It was a woman, small, apparently unarmed.

When I was able to hear her, I realized that she was saying, “Tandy. Tandy, it’s me.”

I stood there in the middle of the street, looking at this stranger with dark hair and sunglasses, wearing a dark coat with a hem down to the tops of her boots. Who was she?

I had no idea.

“Hey!” I shouted, jerking my arm free. “I don’t know you. Leave me alone or I’ll call a gendarme.”

This was bravado. I half expected her to pull a gun from her pocket, that’s how freaked I was. Whoever she was, I wanted nothing to do with her. I may be courageous, but I still know when to walk away and when to run.

The light changed, and dodging traffic, I ran to the other side of the avenue, fast. I felt my heart beat with violent anger in my temples.

Still, the woman called out to me and closed the gap between us.

“Tandy. It’s me! It’s Katherine.”





I slammed on the brakes and whipped around, and without even thinking, I screamed, “Are you crazy? What kind of sick scam is this? Katherine is dead.”

The woman came toward me.

“Tandy. I understand. I understand, but it’s really me. Please. Believe me, this is no joke. It’s me, Tandy. Katherine, your sister. I’m alive, I’m really alive.”

My head began to swim. I got spots before my eyes. Then everything went white.

A woman’s voice was calling me from what seemed to be a great distance. I heard “Tandy, Tandy, please.” I realized she was right next to me, speaking into my ear. I reached out, gripping her arm, and she said, “Whoa. There you go. Can you stand on your own, Tandy?”

I tried to reconstruct it. I was there on the street with a woman who was covered up from top to toe who said she was my sister, Katherine.

Really? Was I going crazy? My eyes burned and my head hurt and I thought I would throw up. This had to be the worst kind of hoax. As much as you might wish that a dear deceased loved one was really alive, it just didn’t happen.

Katherine was dead.

But at the same time my nose was telling me that I shouldn’t be afraid or even ripping mad.

Se Souvenir de Moi.

“Katherine” indicated a setback between two buildings, a place to talk. The setback was sheltered somewhat from the street and appeared to be safe. I have no memory of walking there. I was in full-blown shock and denial. But there we were, standing together in this niche, when my alleged sister took off her glasses, then peeled off her black wig.

Unbelievable, but I saw the chestnut glints in her brown hair, same as Hugo’s. She had cheekbones like Maud’s. And her eyes? Light brown with gold flecks and a ring of darker brown around the irises. It was like looking at my own eyes in the mirror.

I felt as though I’d been wrenched back through time and then shot forward again. I knew that what I was seeing was real. My knees buckled. I stretched out my hand to the wall of the building and this woman—Katherine—grabbed me into a hug.