The Paris Mysteries (Confessions #3)(45)

There was a horrific crash that seemed to unfold one long second at a time. Smoke billowed, and even from so far away, I could smell burning rubber.

Then the band snapped back and real time resumed.

The pursuit vehicle pulled alongside the Escalade and braked. The driver got out of his car, but his vehicle blocked my view of him. He seemed to inspect the crashed Escalade, then get back into his car. Immediately, he began to back up at high speed toward the Town Car.

I ducked again. A hit man was coming for me. I was going to be executed gangster-style. Why? And by whom?

As if that mattered anymore. This was the end.

There was a tapping on the window above my head. A voice called, “Ms. Angel. Tandy! Are you all right?”

The rear door of the Town Car opened, and I peeked up to see Mr. Kenny Chang. He looked scared—for me.

A river of relief ran through me.

I recovered from the shock enough to say, “Mr. Chang. I think Anton is dead.”

Chang said, “There are two fatalities in the Escalade. I’ll call the authorities. Actually”—we both heard sirens at the same time—“I’m sure the state police are already on the way.”

“Who died?” I asked. Was it James and C.P.? Finishing out his father’s orders to get rid of me?

“Let’s wait for a positive identification.”

“I have to know now.”

My legs were wobbly, but I was sure I could reach the smoking one-car wreck that had smashed spectacularly into the thick stand of trees.

“Tandy, it’s an ugly scene,” said Mr. Chang. “Trust me. It’s something you really don’t want to see.”

I started walking.

Mr. Chang called out, “Tandy. No walking on the highway, okay? I’ll drive you there.”

It was a short ride, maybe a hundred yards. When Chang’s car was alongside the wreck of the Escalade, I got out of the car and peered into the crumpled front seat, where two bleeding, twisted bodies lay half covered by airbags.

I looked closer at their faces, and what I saw made me scream.

Then I collapsed. Just freaking passed right out. I heard Mr. Chang calling my name, but honestly, I didn’t want to wake up again. Ever.





There’s more I have to tell you, of course. So much more. Let me start with this: I’ve checked into an institution in Upper Manhattan. Waterside is something like Fern Haven, but the doctors here are trying to help me, not experiment on me, and going for treatment was my idea.

Still, Waterside is kind of a madhouse. There is no cone of silence here. I hear screams of people enduring detox, doctors being paged at all hours, sirens, and all the noise that is the backdrop of the city that never sleeps.

At Jacob’s insistence, Private has stationed a twenty-four-hour rotation of armed guards, and someone is always right outside my room.

Sometimes I feel safe.

But the gory death tableau in the Escalade haunts me night and day. At first, it was hard to identify the crushed bodies, but finally, I recognized the driver. He was one of Royal Rampling’s goons, who had boiled out of that SUV on the Place du Carrousel in an attempt to separate James and me.

The dead man in the passenger seat was Royal Rampling, none other. He had personally fired on the Town Car, had personally tried to shoot me. And now he was gone for good.

But Peter Angel is still alive, and he could be anywhere. He is still a threat to me and everyone I love. Sometimes, when I sleep, it feels as if he’s a gargoyle perched on my headboard, leering as I dream.

As for my treatment, I’ve been diagnosed with “extreme exhaustion,” or as the admitting physician said to me, “You’ve undergone more stress in the last few months than most people experience in a lifetime. You need a break, Tandy.”

But I wasn’t going to get it yet.

Day one, while I was still shaking from stress, I got a note in the form of a greeting card: flowers on the outside, some words printed on the inside, Thinking of you.

Then there was a message. I could hardly keep my eyes on the tangle of words in a handwriting I recognized.

Dear Tandy,

I feel horrible. I know I was wrong to hook up with James and I was weak and there is no excuse and I don’t even know how to convincingly say “I’m sorry.” But I really, truly am. I was lonely. I missed Harry. I missed you. And then James was right here.

You know how he is, Tandy.

I really had no power to refuse him.

It’s not an excuse. It’s just a poor explanation. But maybe this will make you feel better. Right after you left the residence hall, James told me to go.

He dumped me, Tandy. On my ass. And you know why?

Because he’s still in love with you.



Reading C.P.’s words hurt in so many ways, I couldn’t begin to list them.

I skimmed the rest of C.P.’s note in one painful flash. She wrote that she wanted to visit me and that she would make everything up to me and that she would work hard to prove to me that we could be friends again.

By the time I got to the Xs and Os, I was ripping mad, crazy mad, feeling a rage like I’d never felt before. Maybe it was not just anger at C.P. and at James, but unexpressed fury at my parents and my uncle Peter all rolled up into this one rotten thing.

I’d been savagely betrayed by so many people I had loved.

I was even furious at myself for ever loving any of them.