“Of course they do,” I say. “But you know, it’s not all up to Dr. Allington. A lot of the decision over whether or not to negotiate a new contract with you guys is up to the board of trustees—”
“I told Sebastian that,” Sarah says, abruptly letting go of my neck, and wiping her tears with the backs of her wrists. “God. He’s so… adversarial.”
I want to warn her about her word choice—especially with the likelihood of the police looking to the GSC for possible suspects in Owen’s murder—but don’t get a chance to, because the door to the library suddenly pops open, and Tom, who’d been my boss here at Fischer Hall a few months earlier, until he’d been promoted, looks out, sees me, then hisses, “There you are! Get in here! You’re about to miss all the good stuff!”
I know bygood stuff he means hilarity in the form of senior administrators making asses of themselves, something the two of us thoroughly enjoy observing, usually seeking the back row during staff meetings, so we can watch it together.
“I’ll be right there,” I say to Tom. To Sarah I say, trying to push some of her excessively bushy hair out of her face, “I have to go. Are you going to be all right? I’m worried about you.”
“What?” Sarah lifts her head, and the tears are, miraculously, gone. Well, mostly. There are still a few brimming, unshed, in her eyelashes. But they could be mistaken for an allergic reaction to the pollen season. “I’m fine. Whatever. Go on. You better go. Don’t want to be late to your big important meeting. ”
I eye her uncertainly. “Is Detective Canavan still down in my office? Because if he’s not—”
“I know,” she says, rolling those tear-filled eyes sarcastically. “Somebody ought to be down there manning it to make sure the residents have someone to talk to about the recent tragedy. Don’t worry. I’m on it.”
“Good,” I say. “When I’m through here, you and I are having a talk.”
“That’ll be good,” Sarah says, with a sneer. “Can’t wait.”
I give her one last concerned look, then slip through the door Tom’s holding open.
“I see Miss Pissy Pants,” Tom says, referring to Sarah, “hasn’t changed a bit since I left.”
“She’s had a tough week,” I say, in Sarah’s defense. “She’s fallen in love with the head of the GSC, and he doesn’t know she’s alive.”
Tom doesn’t look the least bit sympathetic. “Now why would she want to go and do that? That guy barely even bathes. And he carries a murse. Like I need to point that out.”
I nod, then turn to see that the whole of the Housing Department—well, all nine of the residence hall directors; their assistant hall directors; the three area coordinators; the on-staff psychologist, Dr. Flynn; the department head, Dr. Jessup; Dr. Gillian Kilgore, grief counselor; a man I’ve never seen before; President Allington; and, for some reason, Muffy Fowler—are gathered into the Fischer Hall library, all perched on the institutional blue vinyl couches (or, more accurately, love seats, since whole couches would have encouraged residents to sleep there, and we want the students to sleep in their rooms, not the common areas).
“Well,” Dr. Jessup says, when he sees me—and it’s clear Sarah hadn’t been exaggerating. The whole staff really has been waiting on me for the meeting to begin. He pauses while Tom and I find seats—in the back. And, because all the love seats are taken, we’re forced to settle on the beige carpeting (it doesn’t show the spilled soda stains as much) with our backs against the walls, just beneath a bank of windows looking out across Washington Square Park. Tom immediately uncaps the Montblanc his parents got him for graduation and scrawls,Welcome to HELL! across the top of a blank page of his Day Runner.
Thanks, I mouth back. I miss Tom. Life had been so much better back when he’d been my boss. For one thing, there’d been the fact that we’d taken turns all day going shoe shopping over on Eighth Street, when we weren’t gossiping about the residents and listening to Kelly Clarkson on iTunes.
And for another, Tom had never cared where I’d gotten our paper for the copier. As long as there’d been some.
Then there was the small fact that Tom had never been stupid enough to get himself shot in the head.
“Now that we’re all here,” Dr. Jessup goes on, “let me tell youwhy you’re here. I’m sure you all know that this morning, we experienced a tragic event here in Fischer Hall that will have repercussions not just through our department, but throughout the college itself. Owen Veatch—interim director here at Fischer Hall, and ombudsman to the president’s office, was killed by a single bullet to the back of the head this morning in his office. While I’m certain none of us really got to know Owen Veatch this semester as well as we’d have liked to, what we did know of him led us to believe he was a good man who didn’t deserve to die in the horrible, tragic way that he did.”
Tom leans over to whisper, “That’s two.”
I look at him. “Two what?” I whisper back.
“Two tragics,” he hisses. “Tragic event, and horrible tragic way.”
Solemnly, Tom writes the word Tragic at the top of his blank Day Runner page, then makes two hatch marks beneath it.
“And we’re off,” he whispers happily.
“Who’s that guy?” I whisper, pointing at the only person in the room I’ve never seen before.