Confessions of a Murder Suspect

44

I changed into the clothes Philippe had brought me, and then I was officially released. I was desperate to go home, but it wouldn’t be easy to cut and run.

Philippe took me out through the correctional center’s back door, and a roar went up from the mob of reporters who had gathered on the street. They were jamming the sidewalk right up to the face of the jail.

“Tandoori Angel!”

“Tandy, over here!”

“Look at me, Tandy!”

“Did you kill your parents? Did you kill them?”

The shouting hurt. It was a strange, uncomfortable sensation. A few days earlier, I’m sure I could have walked through this crowd hardly noticing the jeers, let alone feeling them. My parents had been dead for just three days, and now it felt like I was being assaulted with rocks.

Philippe put his hand at my back as a gigantic bouquet of microphones was shoved up to my face. I tried to make the statement Phil had coached me to say.

“I had nothing to do with my parents’ deaths—”

My voice sounded like it belonged to a stranger as it echoed and bounced off the surrounding buildings. And before I could finish my prepared statement, I was pelted again with more fierce questions from rude people.

I got mad then. Hugo kind of mad. Matthew kind of mad. Kick-the-bejeesus-out-of-Robert kind of mad. I strangled the microphone in my grip.

“HEY!” I shouted with a sharpness I didn’t recognize. The boom of my voice and the squeal of feedback washed over the reporters. A few of them put their hands over their ears, but they all gave me their full and quiet attention.

“I’m one of the victims!” I continued. “Do you get that? My parents are dead. If I were your child, would you act like this? I suppose you would, actually. You’re all spineless. Rude. Barbarians. And of course you can quote me on that. Quote away.”

The brief silence that followed my outburst was shattered as all of the reporters began shouting at once. Philippe took the microphone from me and spoke to the mob.

“My client is innocent. The charges against the Angel children and Ms. Peck have been dropped. The entire family is cooperating fully with the police. We have no further comment at this time.”

A pair of uniformed cops appeared beside me. One of them said, “This way, Miss Angel. Come this way.” He actually seemed sort of nice as he reached out to take my arm and lead me inside, but I felt a little out of control and had to force myself not to push him away.

I did not want anyone to touch me. I just wanted to be with my family. What was left of it, anyway.

A dozen or so policemen linked arms and made a path for Philippe and me that would take us back into the relative safety of Central Booking. As I passed through the gauntlet, someone pinched my arm, hard. I yelped and turned in time to see a white-haired cop give me a cold smile.

He didn’t have to say it. He thought I was a killer.

I glared at him so hard and felt so angry that I wondered if I might transform into a tiger or a werewolf, just like in those stupid movies. My mouth was as dry as cotton and my vision was starting to blur.

So this is what fury is like.

Philippe and I were swept through a series of doors to where Phil’s car and driver waited between a Vietnamese take-out restaurant and a bail bondsman’s storefront. I got into the backseat and rested my head against the window, trembling, overcome with weakness.

You’re experiencing withdrawal, Tandy, that voice in my head said. Face it: Your parents had you addicted to drugs.