Confessions of a Murder Suspect

73

I put the folder away. I had made real progress on one front. Now I was going to have to take the bull by the horns to make some headway in my primary investigation: my parents’ murders.

I called Matty, Harry, Hugo, Samantha, and Philippe together for another family meeting. We gathered in the study, where my parents had worked every day when they were alive. It was eerie to see Philippe Montaigne behind my father’s desk.

I took my mother’s chair, and my three brothers and Samantha took seats around the room.

“First things first,” I said to Philippe. “No offense, but seriously—are you our lawyer? Or do you work for Uncle Peter?”

“I work for the Malcolm Angel family—that is, all of you. And I’m your lawyer, too, Samantha.”

“Even though I’m moving out of here tomorrow?”

“You’re still my client. I also work for Peter, but I cannot and will not represent anyone besides the four Angel kids if there is a conflict of interest.”

“Thank you, Phil,” I said. “And if I understand correctly, everything that is said in this room will remain confidential?”

“Absolutely.”

“Okay. Now that we’re officially lawyered up, let’s get started,” I said.

I ran the first part of the meeting as if I were a particularly hard-edged prosecutor. I accused everyone of murdering our parents, asking them tough questions and not giving them time to think or lie. They might hate me for what I was doing, but there was no other way. In the end, everyone stuck to their original story. Stuck hard. And I found no holes. Not one.

So I said, “Let’s do a secret ballot and see where we stand.”

I ripped out a sheet of note paper and passed around the pieces, saying, “Write down who you think killed Malcolm and Maud.”

It was very quiet in the room as names were scribbled down and papers were returned to me. I shuffled the ballots, hoping for a breakthrough of some kind.

Then I read the ballots out loud, one at a time.

“Uncle Peter?”

“Peter.”

“Uncle Piggy.”

“Uncle P. But maybe not.”

“I don’t know.”

That last one was mine. Everyone at least suspected that Peter had or could have killed our parents. But why weren’t the police investigating Peter if it seemed so obvious to us?

“And he’s living right here,” said Matthew. “Who says he won’t kill again? I’m bunking with Hugo indefinitely. Okay, little bro?”

“Are you kidding?” Hugo said. “I’d pay you to do that.”

Just then, Philippe answered a phone call—and life as we knew it took another nosebleed nosedive.

“Turn on the TV,” he snapped.