The Paris Mysteries (Confessions #3)(42)

I thought about James, and so many questions resurfaced. Why hadn’t James talked to me about his decision to leave me? Was his father so powerful that we didn’t even stand a chance against him?

And most important, what would James’s reaction be when he saw me? Anger or love?

I wanted to be with him so much my heart hurt.

I was staring out the window, picturing my run toward James, seeing him grab me up and kiss me as he’d done only weeks ago when I met him on the Place du Carrousel after our long separation.

I was so deeply inside my head that it took me a while to realize that a black Escalade in the left lane had dropped behind us. And actually, it had been in and out of my field of vision since we’d left Central Park West.

“Anton, have you noticed that Caddy? Now it’s two or three cars back.”

“Yes, miss. He’s been on us since we started out. I don’t expect any trouble. Also, so that you know, I’m armed.”

Whoa. But I wasn’t reassured. In fact, I was now on high alert. I turned my head to watch the Escalade through the rear window. After about a mile, it drifted away and got off the highway at the Hawthorne exit.

I checked around for other cars that might be drafting along behind us, perhaps picking up where the Escalade had left off. I also watched for fuel trucks and anything else that looked dead wrong on the Saw Mill.

I saw nothing suspicious, and then we turned off the parkway. We must be getting close.

The countryside was wooded, high-end exurban, with graceful hills and long stretches of cropped green lawns. As we approached the school, I saw a soccer field and a steepled white chapel directly ahead, and signs listing the names of some of the Jefferson School’s buildings: THEATER, ARTS, MATH AND SCIENCE, LIBRARY.

As we cruised through an intersection, I saw a black Cadillac Escalade parked in front of the library. Paranoia hit me hard. Was that the same car that had been trailing us from the city?

Were we really being followed?

But no. The Caddy remained in place when we passed it.

Anton turned right off the school’s main road onto a small unpaved lane flanked with grassy playing fields. A sign read BOYS’ RESIDENCES, and then I saw two large white buildings that looked like dormitories. Just past the dorms were a dozen small white clapboard houses.

Anton said, “Ms. Angel, the third house on the right is James Rampling’s address.”

My pulse pounded in my ears.

I pulled my makeup kit out of my bag, and as the Town Car slowed, I slicked on lip gloss and fluffed my newly extremely short, curly hair. It looked good. Once you got used to it.

Anton braked, got out of the car, and opened the door for me. He asked, “Do you want me to come in with you, Ms. Angel?”

“No, thanks, Anton. I’ve got this.”

He gave me his card with his phone number, telling me he’d have to move the car but he’d be close by. “Call me when you’re ready to go.”

I hardly heard him. I touched Katherine’s diamond lying against my chest.

But all my attention was on the small house where James Rampling lived.





As I struck out for the porch of the white house, the front door opened and a blond boy about my age bounded out.

I stopped him, saying, “Hi, I’m looking for James.”

“Rampling? His room’s on the second floor.”

The boy loped off, and I went through the door. The sitting and dining rooms to the right and left of the staircase were unoccupied, so of course, I took the stairs.

There were two open bedroom doors on the second floor and one closed door with a hand-lettered sign reading RAMPLING at eye level. I put my ear to the door. It was dead quiet inside, and I prepared myself for a letdown. What if I’d made the trip for nothing?

Come on, Tandy. Do it now.

I took a shaky breath—and knocked.

I heard soft footsteps and then the door swung open. A girl stood there. She was slim, wearing black lace panties and bra, but that wasn’t the biggest shock. When I looked at her face, I almost had a heart attack.

I swear, my heart locked up and my brain froze.

With enormous, superhuman effort, I managed to say, “C.P.?”

She said, “Tandy?”

We both said, “What are you doing here?”

But my voice was louder, more shocked, more outraged.

My best friend was in scanties in James’s room. There was only one way to interpret that.

“I’m back,” I said. “I came to see James.”

“You should probably leave before this gets awkward,” said Claudia Portman, my former best friend. “You shouldn’t just drop in on people, you know.”

“Screw you,” I spat at her. “What the hell are you doing with James?”

“Geez, Tandy. I’ve got to spell this out for you? I was writing to him, you know, as a friend, and we fell in love. Sorry.”

She didn’t look sorry. She looked triumphant. She looked like someone who had robbed a bank and gotten away clean. She looked like a fanged, first-class, made-for-daytime-TV bitch.

“Fuck you, C.P.”

“Well, fuck you, too, Tandy.”

I have to admit it. Fury burned through me like a flash fire, and I lost control over myself. I pulled back my hand and slapped C.P. hard across the face. Her skin went pink around my fingerprints. She reeled and cried out, “James! She hit me.”