Read Online Confessions of a Murder Suspect by James Patterson - Free Book Online
Authors: James Patterson
Ads: Link
the floor, then got into bed beside him. He rolled toward me and cried on my shoulder. It really hurt to hear Harry cry.
But I had to ask him. I had to. He was very creative, and I was pretty sure he could come up with a way to do the impossible and never get caught.
“Did you kill them, Harry?”
He drew back and looked at me, his eyes switching back and forth across my face.
“No,” he finally said. “I didn’t kill them, Tandy. Did
you
?”
It’s one thing to ask someone if they’re guilty. It’s another to be asked. I was nonplussed.
“Because, Tandy,” Harry went on, “I know what they took from you. I know we don’t talk about it—about
him
. About the incident. But I’ll never forget. How much it hurt. Both of us.”
I just stared at him.
“Have you forgotten, Tandy?” he asked. “Have you?”
CONFESSION
My brother.
Sweet, gentle, weepy Harry. I swear he wouldn’t knowingly do anything to hurt anybody. The real Harry wouldn’t hurt a fly. Not even a hideous cockroach. When he was a little boy, he actually caught bugs in his hand and set them free on the fire escape—when Maud wasn’t looking.
So how do I explain the
one
time in his life Harry hurt someone? The day when my twin betrayed the person who loves him the most? Sometimes I’m so glad I’ve been given the gift of control over my emotions, because I just can’t even
imagine
how much it would have hurt me otherwise.
Harry never came to the hospital after my… incident. The most traumatic experience of my life. Malcolm and Maud wouldn’t really say why.
“He’s busy practicing” was Maud’s weak explanation.
“He’s never been good around blood or needles, you know that,” Malcolm said, with a touch of disdain.
Hugo was the one who told me the truth—as usual. He was too young to lie about something like that. “Harry didn’t come because he said you deserved it,” he reported innocently. “Why, Tandy? Why did you deserve it?”
I looked away and didn’t answer.
22
And that’s just what I did
this
time
, too, as Harry’s earlier question echoed in the room:
Have you forgotten, Tandy? Have you?
I looked away and didn’t answer.
I lay next to Harry in his bed, watching the changing light reflect on the painted angels peering down from the ceiling. Harry had been inspired by Michelangelo’s timeless masterpieces in the Sistine Chapel, and had invented his own special effect so that the angels’ wings seemed to shimmer in every color against a lightning-struck pink and gold sky.
My mother found Harry’s work sentimental. Maybe it was, but like his music, I found his paintings evocative,endearing, and curious. I didn’t really connect to them in the way I think Harry hoped I might, but that was just a genetic issue. He and I had talked about how odd it was that we were called “twins” when we were really nothing more than siblings who happened to grow in the womb together at the same time. Fraternal twins come from two totally separate eggs, and the differences between us were obvious: I got all the scientific genes, and Harry got all the artistic genes.
Which made me wonder: Was Maud or Malcolm really an artist at heart? Were the Angel children their sculptures, their canvases, their creations to be put on display for all the world to see and admire?
Almost any other parents would have been proud of Harry. It was a mystery to both of us why his painting wasn’t valued in this family. Maybe because it represented something missing from our lives. Or at least
my
life. Magic… soul… light?
Or love? Yes, maybe that was it. The experience of true, passionate love that had been snatched away from me just when it had been in my grasp—
Nil satis nisi optimum
, interrupted my father’s voice, booming inside my head. Crushing the thought as if it were vermin.
Nothing but the best is good enough.
He meant
no one
but the best is good enough.
It doesn’t matter anymore
, I reminded myself.
Only one
But I had to ask him. I had to. He was very creative, and I was pretty sure he could come up with a way to do the impossible and never get caught.
“Did you kill them, Harry?”
He drew back and looked at me, his eyes switching back and forth across my face.
“No,” he finally said. “I didn’t kill them, Tandy. Did
you
?”
It’s one thing to ask someone if they’re guilty. It’s another to be asked. I was nonplussed.
“Because, Tandy,” Harry went on, “I know what they took from you. I know we don’t talk about it—about
him
. About the incident. But I’ll never forget. How much it hurt. Both of us.”
I just stared at him.
“Have you forgotten, Tandy?” he asked. “Have you?”
CONFESSION
My brother.
Sweet, gentle, weepy Harry. I swear he wouldn’t knowingly do anything to hurt anybody. The real Harry wouldn’t hurt a fly. Not even a hideous cockroach. When he was a little boy, he actually caught bugs in his hand and set them free on the fire escape—when Maud wasn’t looking.
So how do I explain the
one
time in his life Harry hurt someone? The day when my twin betrayed the person who loves him the most? Sometimes I’m so glad I’ve been given the gift of control over my emotions, because I just can’t even
imagine
how much it would have hurt me otherwise.
Harry never came to the hospital after my… incident. The most traumatic experience of my life. Malcolm and Maud wouldn’t really say why.
“He’s busy practicing” was Maud’s weak explanation.
“He’s never been good around blood or needles, you know that,” Malcolm said, with a touch of disdain.
Hugo was the one who told me the truth—as usual. He was too young to lie about something like that. “Harry didn’t come because he said you deserved it,” he reported innocently. “Why, Tandy? Why did you deserve it?”
I looked away and didn’t answer.
22
And that’s just what I did
this
time
, too, as Harry’s earlier question echoed in the room:
Have you forgotten, Tandy? Have you?
I looked away and didn’t answer.
I lay next to Harry in his bed, watching the changing light reflect on the painted angels peering down from the ceiling. Harry had been inspired by Michelangelo’s timeless masterpieces in the Sistine Chapel, and had invented his own special effect so that the angels’ wings seemed to shimmer in every color against a lightning-struck pink and gold sky.
My mother found Harry’s work sentimental. Maybe it was, but like his music, I found his paintings evocative,endearing, and curious. I didn’t really connect to them in the way I think Harry hoped I might, but that was just a genetic issue. He and I had talked about how odd it was that we were called “twins” when we were really nothing more than siblings who happened to grow in the womb together at the same time. Fraternal twins come from two totally separate eggs, and the differences between us were obvious: I got all the scientific genes, and Harry got all the artistic genes.
Which made me wonder: Was Maud or Malcolm really an artist at heart? Were the Angel children their sculptures, their canvases, their creations to be put on display for all the world to see and admire?
Almost any other parents would have been proud of Harry. It was a mystery to both of us why his painting wasn’t valued in this family. Maybe because it represented something missing from our lives. Or at least
my
life. Magic… soul… light?
Or love? Yes, maybe that was it. The experience of true, passionate love that had been snatched away from me just when it had been in my grasp—
Nil satis nisi optimum
, interrupted my father’s voice, booming inside my head. Crushing the thought as if it were vermin.
Nothing but the best is good enough.
He meant
no one
but the best is good enough.
It doesn’t matter anymore
, I reminded myself.
Only one
Similar Books
