Confessions: The Private School Murders (15 page)

But they tried.

A few weeks after I was released from Fern Haven, Maud told me that James and I had run away together. That was all she would tell me. No details, no reasons, no explanation of why she’d felt the need to tear us apart. Of course I tried as hard as I could to remember, to figure out why I’d done what I’d done, but in place of the images of James and me in each other’s arms, all I could see was that white room deep inside Fern Haven. All I could remember were the treatments that were like blackouts followed by whiteouts.

By the time I was returned to the Dakota, my mind was filled with buzzing and snow, exactly like the static on a TV that’s lost its signal. I couldn’t remember where I’d been, what I’d done. At the time I couldn’t even recall James’s face or his name. Just a vague, shadowy, nebulous idea of him. And the pressure of his lips on mine.

Not that I told anyone that. Of course I didn’t. Because I knew they would try to take that from me, too.

Dr. Keyes, my therapist, became my personal coach.

Someday I’d like to have a real sit-down with Dr. Keyes. She has a lot of explaining to do. But now that my memories are starting to come back, I’m putting aside my revenge plans. I’m focusing on the saying “Love will find a way.”

I’m counting on it, because James and I were meant to be together. I know that what we had was the real thing, even without my bleached-clean and sanitized mind totally back to normal yet.

But where is he?

Where is James Rampling?

Is there a chance that wherever he is, he’s dreaming of kissing me?

This is a mystery I must solve.

If I’m such a multitasking investigative genius, I ought to be able to figure it out.

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When Malcolm and Maud found out
what had happened between James and me, they took quick, decisive action to make sure we were separated. Not just separated. They wanted to be sure that James Rampling would never be able to come near me or our family ever again.

It would be quite reasonable to ask me, dear friend, if this forced separation happened in a small village in a time before electricity and running water and, oh, I don’t know, rational thought. Because honestly. How could this have happened in New York City, in the twenty-first century?

Well, the Angels wanted it to happen, so it did.

Dr. Keyes told me my parents were terrified that my
relationship with James would derail all the grand plans they had for me, which in their opinion meant he would ruin my life. She said the best thing would be for me to forget him and move past this short, nearly devastating interlude. And she said her job was to help me obliterate the nightmare quickly. Thoroughly. Permanently.

But apparently she didn’t do her job all that well. Because my memory is coming back. I know it is. That has to be what these dreams are—real memories trying to push their way through.

After my parents’ deaths, I ransacked Maud’s office and found a hidden newspaper article with this headline:
SON OF STORIED FINANCIER, 18, DISAPPEARS UNDER MYSTERIOUS CIRCUMSTANCES.

Below the headline was a photograph of James.

Just the sight of him—the fully formed, non-nebulous, totally sharp sight of him—knocked the wind out of me. It also knocked any doubt out of me. At that moment, I knew. I knew for absolute certain that these little flashes I’d been getting, these memories and wisps of images, were real.

So I took the article. I buried it in a file of research on the effect of nuclear waste on sea coral and locked it away in my room.

Now I got out of bed and went to my desk, which was
right near my windows, facing the park. I pressed my left ring finger to the biometric plate at the side of the pedestal and the locks thunked open. I opened the file drawer.

I pawed through the file until my hand fell on the scrap of newsprint.

There, under the headline, the photo jolted me once again. His handsome face, his light eyes, his sweet smile, and the strong line of his jaw. And then I saw him leaning in toward me, sliding his fingers into my hair.…

No. Not now. I had work to do. I forced myself to focus on the article.

Royal Rampling, billionaire financier and father of James Rampling, 18-year-old student at the Park Avenue High School, who was reported missing this week, has contacted this paper to say that James is living abroad.

Said Mr. Rampling yesterday, “James is perfectly well and is attending a private school in Europe, where he is devoting himself to his studies.”

The article went on to cite Mr. Rampling’s business expertise and the size of his fortune, but the last paragraph was dedicated to my mother.

On July 14, Mr. Rampling reported Maud Angel, founder and CEO of Leading Hedge, a New York hedge fund, to the SEC for securities fraud. He is further suing Mrs. Angel personally for $50 million.

Reading about my mother’s supposed crime still knocked the air out of me. Philippe had explained to me that Maud was, indeed, in serious trouble before her death. She had invested heavily in Angel Pharmaceuticals, telling her clients that the company was solid when it was actually nearing collapse.

Furthermore, Maud had borrowed money and had issued false financial statements to hide losses, and when Angel Pharma’s crooked books were exposed, Maud couldn’t pay back her investors.

Royal Rampling was her most damaged client, so he had called her out. On the night my parents died, Rampling had been poised to bankrupt her. I was sure Maud detested him. So it was no wonder she didn’t want me seeing his son. And maybe, just maybe, Royal Rampling didn’t want his son seeing me, either.

It was about them, of course. Always. Always about them.

A white-hot fury seared through me so fast I almost
crumpled the precious article and its photo in my hand. But at the last second I stopped myself and instead flung the rest of the folder across the room as hard as I could, letting out a guttural howl. Papers fluttered to the floor. The folder smacked against my door. It wasn’t all that satisfying, to be honest, but it was something.

Clenching my jaw, I grabbed my robe and walked into my bathroom, turning the hot water in the shower as high as it would go. Then I stood under the punishing spray as long as I could, trying to catch my breath, thinking about the Capulets and the Montagues.

But James and I were different from Romeo and Juliet. While Malcolm, Maud, and Mr. Rampling had succeeded in separating us, I wasn’t dead.

All I could do was hope that James wasn’t, either.

29

I had once defiantly told Capricorn Caputo
that I slept like a stump. This was three months ago, during the days when arcane chemical compounds were both focusing and numbing my mind. Now my brain was free at last and fighting for a comeback. Which meant that that night, I couldn’t sleep. I could almost feel the neurons seeking out unused connections, spanning voids, plugging in, powering up.

The glowing clock next to my bed read
1:14
. I couldn’t quiet my mind no matter how many sheep I counted or lines of poetry I recited or digits of pi I recounted.

Where was James? Had he bailed after we were separated or had his parents sent him somewhere? Was his
memory wiped as well? Did he remember me at all? If he did, why hadn’t he tried to get in touch? He must have had my phone number, my e-mail, my family’s address, something.

And then, at exactly 4:30 in the morning, I sat straight up in bed. Maybe James had tried to get in touch with me but his messages hadn’t gotten though. It wasn’t like Malcolm and Maud to go to all that trouble to wipe my brain and then just let a letter or a text or an e-mail get to me. They were nothing if not thorough. Maniacally so.

If his texts or e-mails had somehow been blocked, the next logical thing for him to try would have been writing. Good old-fashioned snail mail.

I pushed myself out of bed, intent on searching Malcolm’s and Maud’s things again, but I paused. I’d already gone through all their stuff. If there had been anything in this house from James, I would have found it.

And then it hit me, like a smack to the forehead. Not everything we’d once had in this house was still in this house.

After Malcolm’s and Maud’s bodies had been removed and the crime-scene unit was wrapping up, the CSI people had carried off four cardboard boxes full of my parents’ personal files.

Those files had never been returned.

I clutched the post at the end of my bed. Where were those boxes now? Had they been stored in some kind of evidence locker? Or even destroyed?

Panic gripped my insides, and I reached for my cell phone. I needed to go through the files. I was sure there was something important inside those boxes. A journal, or a letter exchanged by Maud and Rampling agreeing to the separation of their kids.

Maybe even a letter from James.

Those boxes held answers, and I’m all about answers.

That’s one thing about me that hasn’t changed at all.

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