“Twist the knife, why don’t you,” I say.
“I’m sorry,” Patty says. “I love having you sit for us, but you do realize you’ve never once said you couldn’t because you were busy? Heather, you’ve got to get back out there. Not just with your music, either. You’ve got to try to meet someone.”
“I meet plenty of people,” I say defensively.
“I mean someone who isn’t a freshman at New York College.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Well, it’s easy for you to criticize. You’ve got the perfect husband. You don’t know what it’s like in real life. You think Jordan was an anomaly? Patty, he’s the norm.”
“That isn’t true,” Patty says. “You’ll find someone. You just can’t be afraid to take a risk.”
What is she talking about? I do nothing but take risks. I’m trying to keep a psychopath from killing again. Isn’t that enough? I have to have a ring on my finger, too?
Some people are never satisfied.
12
I’m an undercover agent and I’m
Staking out your heart
Got my goggles with night vision and I’m
Staking out your heart
Oh
You better run
’Cuz when I’m done
You’ll be giving me
Your heart
“Staking Out Your Heart”
Performed by Heather Wells
Composed by O’Brien/Henke
From the album Staking Out Your Heart
Cartwright Records
No matter how much I try to shake it, the thought stays with me all weekend. The Virgins of Fischer Hall.
I know it sounds insane. But I just kept thinking about it.
Maybe Patty’s right, and the kids in the dorm—residence hall, I mean—are taking up the space in my heart where love for my own kids would be if, you know, I had any. Because I can’t stop worrying about them.
Not that there can be that many more virgins left in the building—which I happen to be in a position to know. Ever since I swapped the Hershey’s Kisses in the candy jar on my desk for individually wrapped Trojans, I’ve had kids stumbling down to my office at nine in the morning in their PJs—and if you don’t think nine in the morning is early by college standards, you’ve never been in college—unapologetically plucking them from the jar.
No embarrassment. No apologies. In fact, when I run out of Trojans, and the jar remains empty for a day or so until I get more from Health Services, let me tell you, I hear about it. The kids start in on me right away: “Hey! Where are the condoms? Are you out of condoms? What am I supposed to do now?”
Anyway, the upshot of it is, I pretty much know who is getting some in my building.
And let me tell you, it’s a lot of people. There aren’t a whole lot of virgins left in Fischer Hall.
But somehow, some guy had managed to find and kill two of them.
I couldn’t let any more girls die. But how was I going to stop it from happening again when I didn’t have any idea who the guy was? I didn’t get anywhere with the roster thing. There were three Marks and no Todds at all in the building, although there was one Tad. One of the three Marks in the building was black (he was a resident on Jessica’s floor—I called her to ask) and another Korean (I called his RA as well), which ruled them both out, since Lakeisha had been sure the guy was white. Tad was so obviously gay that I just stammered an apology and said I’d gotten the wrong number when he picked up the phone.
The third Mark had gone home for the weekend, according to his roommate, but would be back on Monday. But according to his RA, he was only five foot seven, hardly what you’d call tall.
I guess you could call the investigation—such as it was—stymied.
And with Cooper in absentia all weekend, it wasn’t like I could ask for his professional advice on the matter. I’m not sure if he was hiding from me, or busy working, or busy—well, doing something else. Since I moved in, Cooper hadn’t had a single overnight guest—which for him, at least if Jordan is to be believed, might be a record dry spell. But given how frequently he was gone from the townhouse for days at a time, I could only assume he was crashing at the home of his current flame—whoever she might be.
Which was typical of him. You know, not to rub it in my face that he’s getting some, while I’m most definitely not.
Still, I had a hard time appreciating his courteousness as the weekend wore on, and I was still no closer to figuring out who was killing the Virgins of Fischer Hall. If, um, anyone was.
Which might be why, when Monday morning finally rolls around, I’m the first one in the office, latte and bagel already ingested, deeply engrossed in Roberta Pace’s student file.
The file’s contents are remarkably similar to Elizabeth’s, although the two girls came from different sides of the country—Roberta was from Seattle. But they’d both had interfering mothers. Roberta’s mother had called Rachel to complain that Roberta needed a new roommate.
Which startles me. How could anyone not like Lakeisha?
But according to the “incident report”—one of which is filled out whenever a staff member has an interaction with a resident—when Rachel spoke to Roberta, it turned out to be Mrs. Pace, not her daughter, who had the problem with Lakeisha. “It’s not that I don’t like black people,” Mrs. Pace had told Rachel, according to the report. “I just don’t want my daughter to have to live with one.”
This is the kind of stuff, I’ve discovered, that people in higher ed have to deal with every day. The good thing is, usually it’s not the kids with the problem, but their parents. As soon as the parents go back home, everything ends up being okay.
The bad thing is—well, that people like Mrs. Pace exist at all.
I force myself to read on. According to the report, Rachel called Roberta down to the office and asked her if she wanted a room change, the way her mother said she did. Roberta said no, that she liked Lakeisha. Rachel reports that then she let Roberta go and called the mother back, gave her our standard speech in such cases—“Much of a college education takes part outside the classroom, where our students experience new cultures and ways of life. Here at New York College, we do everything we can to encourage cultural diversity awareness. Don’t you want your son/daughter to be able to get along with every sort of individual when he/she enters the workforce?”