Confessions of a Murder Suspect

36

My mother had secrets; Samantha obviously had secrets; and so did I. Now I think I’m ready to tell you a really big one.

Uncle Peter must have come back on the scene, because he and Matty were shouting at each other just outside my room. So I turned on some music and took out my pillbox.

The pillbox, which once belonged to Gram Hilda, is made of ebony and inlaid with mother-of-pearl. I opened the box and saw that I’d forgotten to take my pills the night before.

It was the first time I’d ever forgotten my medication. Ever.

I was horrified—probably because my parents would’ve been so angry with me. I could’ve even gotten a Big Chop for this. The same was true for my brothers, and for Katherine, when she was alive.

You never miss your meds.

I shook out the day’s dose of candy-colored pills and held them in the palm of my hand: two green pills, one pink one, three white caplets, one multicolored round pill, two tiny black ones, and a yellow gelcap.

These were Malcolm’s special super-vitamins, which he’d brought home from the factory for us ever since we were kids. I’d looked for them in the Physicians’ Desk Reference and in the Angel Pharma catalog, but I’d never found matches for them. I had always suspected that our pills were Malcolm’s off-label special blend.

“They’re why you children never get sick,” he’d say if we asked. And since we were the only kids we knew of who pretty much never got sick, there was no reason not to believe him.

But I hadn’t taken my pills the night before—had missed just one dose—and then I had fainted, had an emotional breakdown, sobbed, and felt out of control. In short, I’d acted in a way that was just not like me.

I felt… like a lot of other teenage girls must feel.

Could this be… normal?

I wasn’t sure what to make of it yet. But an idea was forming. It was not an entirely new idea, but it had never before seemed so powerful. And scary.

Why were the Angel kids so special, so different from other people and from one another?

Were my laser focus and concentration, Matthew’s speed and agility, Hugo’s strength, and Harry’s artistic talent enhanced by this daily handful of pills? Had our father found some way to help us become more perfect, as good as we could possibly be, maybe even a little… supernatural?

If so, what would happen if we stopped taking the pills?

I’d already started to see myself break down emotionally. Were my focus and concentration and analytical skills next?

I dropped the handful of pills onto my bed and ran straight to Harry’s room.

He was wearing headphones and had started a painting that was both garish and strangely familiar. The colors were swirled all around, but I could have sworn I recognized our father’s face in the deep green, purple, and black shapes with striking white zigzags Harry was throwing onto the canvas.

I lifted one of his earpieces and said, “Harry—the pills. What are they for? Do you know?”

He shrugged. “You’re the detective. I’m just an art dweeb.”

“I think we should stop taking them.”

“You do? But why?”

“Until we know what they are, I definitely think we should stop.”

“What will happen?”

“I don’t know for sure. But listen, Harry—we need to find out.”

“But what if they’re… necessary, or something? I’ve never not taken my pills. Malcolm and Maud would give us Big Chops for it.”

“Malcolm and Maud are gone,” I said, probably more harshly than I should have, because Harry’s eyes began to water. “I just think we need to try this,” I went on in a more soothing tone. “Don’t you want to know what they’re for… and why we are the way we are? I’m sure it’s all connected somehow.”

Harry looked at my doubtfully. Even in death our parents were still controlling him through their rules. “Okay,” he finally said, smiling through his tears. “I’ll stop being a druggie if you do.”

“Good,” I said, patting his hand and leaving him to his painting. We were one step closer to figuring everything out.