“Whatever,” Sarah says, rolling her eyes. Sarah is getting a master’s in psychology, so she knows a lot about the human psyche and how it works. Or thinks she does, anyway. “Half the people in the building aren’t even awake yet. Or, if they are, they’ve hurried off to class. So do you think they’re going to cancel tomorrow night’s game? Not because of this blizzard we’re supposed to be getting, but because of…you know. Her?”
“Um,” I say, slipping behind my desk. It feels good to sit down. I hadn’t been aware of how badly my knees were shaking until now.
Well, it’s not every day you see a decapitated cheerleader’s head in a pot. Especially a cheerleader you knew. It’s no wonder I’m a little shaky. Plus, except for the café mocha, I still haven’t had breakfast.
Not that I feel like eating. Well, very much.
“I don’t know,” I say. “They want to question Mark.”
Sarah looks annoyed. “He didn’t do it,” she says scornfully. “He’s not smart enough. Unless he had help.”
It’s true. The admission standards for New York College are some of the highest in the country…except when it comes to athletes. Basically any semi-decent ballplayer who wants to come to New York College is accepted, since, as a Division III school, all the best athletes tend to go to colleges in Division I or II. Still, President Allington is determined to have his legacy at New York College be that he turned it into an actual contender in the world of college ball—his ultimate goal, it’s rumored, is to have the school’s Division I rating reinstated.
Though the likelihood of this happening—especially in light of today’s events—seems slim.
“I still can’t get over it,” Sarah is saying. “Where could her body be?”
“Where all bodies in New York City turn up,” I say, looking at my phone messages. “In the river somewhere. No one’ll find it till spring, when the temperature rises enough to cause the body to bob.”
I’m no forensic expert, of course, and I haven’t even been able to enroll in any criminal justice courses yet, thanks to the remedial math I need to get through first.
But I’ve watched a lot of Law and Order and CSI.
Plus, you know, I live with a private detective. Or “share a domicile with,” I should say, since “live with” sounds like we share more than that, which we don’t. Sadly.
Sarah shudders elaborately, even though it’s warm in the office and she’s wearing one of the thick striped sweaters woven for her by a fellow member of the kibbutz upon which she spent the summer of her freshman year. It looks quite fetching over her overalls.
“It just doesn’t make any sense,” she says. “How can there be another murder in this building? We really ARE turning into Death Dorm.”
I’m looking at my messages. My best friend Patty—she’s no doubt seen the cover of today’s Post, and is as worried as Reggie was about how it’s affected me. Someone who wouldn’t give his name and said he’d call back later—creditor, no doubt. I’d maxed out the cards a little in my preholiday gift-buying frenzy. If I can hold them off until March, I’ll pay it all back when I get my tax refund. And—
I wave the slip at Sarah. “Is this for real? Did he really call? Or are you yanking my chain?”
Sarah looks surprised. “Honestly, Heather,” she says. “Do you think I’d joke around on a day like today? Jordan Cartwright really did call. Or, at least, someone who claimed to be Jordan Cartwright called. He wants you to call him back right away. He said it was vitally important. Emphasis on the vitally.”
Well, that sounds like Jordan, all right. Everything is vitally important to Jordan. Especially if it involves humiliating me in some way.
“What if,” Sarah says, “Lindsay’s body isn’t in the river? Supposing it’s still in the building. Supposing…my God, supposing it’s still in Lindsay’s room!”
“Then we’d have heard from Cheryl already,” I say. “Since she and Lindsay’s roommate swapped spaces first thing this morning.”
“Oh.” Sarah looks disappointed. Then she brightens. “Maybe it’s somewhere else in the building! Like in someone else’s room. Could you imagine coming home from class and finding a headless body in your swivel chair, like in front of your computer?”
My stomach twists. The café mocha is not resting well.
“Sarah,” I say. “Seriously. Shut up.”
“Oh, my God, or what if like we find it in the game room, propped up against the foosball table?”
“Sarah.” I glare at her.
“Oh, lighten up, Heather, “she says, with a laugh. “Can’t you tell I’m resorting to gallows humor in an effort to break the connection between such a horrifying stimulus and an unwanted emotional response, such as revulsion or fear, which in this case wouldn’t be helpful or professional?”
“I’d prefer revulsion,” I say. “I don’t think anyone has to be professional when there’s a headless cheerleader involved.”
It’s at this moment that Tom chooses to appear in the doorway to his office.
“Can we not say that word?” he asks queasily, grasping the doorframe for support.
“What?” Sarah flicks some of her curly hair off her shoulder. “Cheerleader?”