by Meg Cabot
Everyone except for Kaileigh’s mother, who is sobbing, is absolutely silent. My heart is pounding so hard, I’m positive I’m not the only one who can hear it.
“No, Howard,” I say. “None of us wants that. There’s no need for anyone to get hurt here—”
“What about me?” Howard demands. Kaileigh’s not the only one who’s crying. He is too. “Doesn’t anyone care about me? I got hurt.”
“Who hurt you, Howard?” I ask. I’ve got to keep him talking so he won’t hear what I hear, the sound of sirens in the distance. They’ve been growing louder every second. I hope Howard doesn’t notice them.
Or the fact that I’m slowly undoing the buckle on my purse.
“All of you,” he says. “But especially Jasmine. She had a photo—”
“Of you at Prince Rashid’s party?” I ask.
“She thought it was funny,” Howard says. “She was going to Tweet it. The RA on duty, partying with a prince. I tried to explain to her—I tried to get her to delete it, but she wouldn’t. I told her I could lose my job. I could lose my housing.”
His voice breaks.
“But then I did anyway. Stupid. So stupid. My parents are so mad at me. They told me I’m a joke.”
“Oh, Howard,” I say. “I’m so sorry.”
I’ve slipped my hand into my purse. I can feel the cool, smooth metal groove of the pistol against my fingers.
“All because Jasmine didn’t care,” he goes on. “She thought it made a funny story for that stupid blog. Jasmine came from a rich family. She didn’t need the RA job. It was all a joke to her. I was a joke to her. But I’m not a joke.”
He presses the knife closer to Kaileigh’s throat, and I see the girl flinch in pain, though she’s otherwise paralyzed with fear.
“I may not have gotten into Harvard,” Howard sobs, “but I am no one’s joke!”
“No, Howard,” I say. “You’re no one’s joke. I agree that the way Jasmine treated you was really unfair. I wish you’d come and talked to us about it, but it’s not too late. Why don’t you let Kaileigh go so you and I can talk now?”
I’m a pretty good actress. You have to be in order to convince stadiums filled with tweens and teens that the song you’re singing is going out only to them, or that your heart truly was broken by the boy in the lyrics you’re crooning.
Over the years since I’ve stopped performing, I think my acting skills have only gotten better, more subtle, especially since I’ve taken the job at Fischer Hall. Every day I have to convince parents that I truly do feel the pain of their precious son who simply must have a room facing south or he’ll never make good grades because of a lack of sunlight, or their sweet daughter who needs a single because her PMS is so chronic, she could never possibly get along with a roommate. Every day, I pretend to like students I cannot abide, and supervisors I heartily wish I’d never met.
But somehow my acting skills fail me today—either that, or Howard’s guilt over his crimes has given him hypersensitive powers of perception.
“No,” he says, his voice a high-pitched whine. “You’re trying to trick me, just like Jasmine.”
He backs away, dragging a now openly weeping Kaileigh with him.
“I’m not, Howard,” I insist. “Let Kaileigh go, and you’ll see. I’m on your side. If you release Kaileigh, you and I can go somewhere quiet, and we can talk about what Jasmine did to you, and come to some kind of arrangement about your housing situation. I swear it. You know me, Howard. You know I wouldn’t lie to you about this. Just put the knife down and let her go.”
Can I really do this? I ask myself as my fingers close around the handle of the pistol Hal gave me and I steady my index finger along the barrel of the gun. Cooper told me to keep my finger there, and never to curl it around the trigger, until I’m ready to release the safety and fire.
But can I fire on this boy, and do it quickly enough so he doesn’t have a chance to cut Kaileigh more deeply than he already has—I can see the serrated points of the knife sinking into the soft skin of her throat—and also not hit her anywhere vital? He’s using her as a shield, probably fully aware that an NYPD SWAT team will be showing up soon. He’s backed them both up so that his spine is against the metal steam tables where hot food is served. No way SWAT will be able to get to him from behind, even if they could sneak up on him without his noticing.
I don’t see any alternative. Blood is beginning to trickle down Kaileigh’s neck, splashing onto the stylish white lawn blouse she’s wearing. I no longer hear the sirens behind me, which means the police are here, parked outside the building, and probably lining up outside the cafeteria with their own pistols drawn. The minute Howard sees them, he’s going to panic.
I could wait for Dr. Flynn, and whatever hostage negotiator the police are undoubtedly going to bring in, but I’m not sure I have that much time. One motion of that knife—which I know is sharp, because I used it earlier this morning to slice through my own breakfast—and Kaileigh will be dead.
Kaileigh Harris is my resident. Protecting her is my responsibility. Howard already took the life of one Fischer Hall resident, and attempted to take the life of another student.
I won’t allow him to take the life of another.
I shoulder my bag and flick off the safety of the pistol Hal assured me was so good for picking off varmints, but not so good for hitting threats of the two-legged variety.
“Howard,” I say. “I’m going to ask you one last time. Let her go.”
“I told you,” Howard says tiredly. “I don’t believe—”
I pull the pistol from my bag with both hands, aim, and fire in one smooth motion.
36
We can do no great things, only small things with great love.
Mother Teresa
The bullet lodges itself neatly into the back of Howard’s hand, the one holding the knife.
Fortunately, instead of raking the knife across Kaileigh’s throat, Howard’s hand jerks upward and out from the force of the bullet, and the knife clatters harmlessly to the floor. Hal had the foresight to load the pistol with small-caliber hollow-point ammunition, so that instead of traveling through Howard’s hand and into Kaileigh’s neck, the bullet stays in Howard’s flesh, expanding upon entering its target. Not at all appropriate for squirrel hunting, but highly effective for stopping mentally unstable boys holding young women hostage at serrated knifepoint.
“Ow!” Howard screams, waving his smoking hand in the air. “Ow! Why did you do that? That really hurt!”
I lower the gun, my hands shaking uncontrollably.
Howard doesn’t know how lucky he is. I was aiming for the center of his head, the largest part of his body not covered by part of Kaileigh’s. It was a perfect target.
Thank God I missed.
The next thing I know, SWAT officers from the Sixth Precinct are swarming the Fischer Hall cafeteria screaming, “Freeze! NYPD! Everyone down on the floor!”
Both Howard and I are pressed to the floor by police officers dressed all in Kevlar and holding assault rifles. Howard is quickly arrested and taken away. Mr. and Mrs. Harris fall upon Kaileigh, who is shaken up but unhurt, except for a superficial cut on her neck. They shower her with kisses and promises that they will never, ever leave her side again.
It’s not until much later, as I’m sitting at a table in the cafeteria—where I’ve been commanded to stay by the unit supervisor—picking pieces of honeydew out of my hair, that Detective Canavan saunters over and sits down beside me.
He has a mug of steaming coffee for himself in one hand and another mug piled high with whipped cream in the other. He slides the mug piled high with whipped cream toward me.
“So, Wells,” he says. “What’s this I hear about you shooting the perp in the hand with an unregistered and unlicensed target pistol?”
“It’s not true.” Magda is sitting beside me, helping to pick pieces of melon from my hair, one of the unfortunate consequences of having been forced to lie on the c
afeteria floor for so long. “I didn’t see a gun. And no one can find a gun. So, there is no gun. Is there, Heather?”
“It’s not true,” I say, taking a sip from the mug Canavan has slid my way. It’s coffee mixed with a generous portion of hot cocoa. In fact, it would be more accurate to call it hot cocoa with a splash of coffee. How did he remember? “What would a girl like me be doing with a gun, anyway? Hey—” I jerk the mug away from my lips. “Is there alcohol in this?”
Canavan shrugs. “There might be a little whiskey. In my personal experience, it’s the only thing that works on the shakes.”
I glance down at my fingers, which are still trembling. I quickly pull both my hands beneath the table.
“I didn’t think anyone had noticed,” I murmur, staring down at the whipped cream floating on the top of my drink.
“No one has, I don’t think,” Canavan says. “Takes someone who’s been in your same shoes to see it.” He doesn’t mention the details—who he shot when he was in my shoes, or how it turned out. He doesn’t have to. “The boy’ll be all right—fit enough to stand trial, anyway, for murdering the first girl and attempting to murder the reporter and the other girl, today. He won’t lose the hand either.”
“That’s good,” I murmur, remembering Howard’s scream as the bullet entered his skin. Why did you do that? That really hurt!
Canavan curls a lip, amused by my expression. “You really need to toughen up a little, Wells, if you’re serious about getting a degree in criminology. All these mutts have a sob story about why they did the things they did, and a lot of them are pretty good. Hit you right here.” He points to his heart. “On the other hand, there are millions of other people out there in the world with stories that are equally heartbreaking, and guess what? They didn’t solve their problems by sticking their hands over a girl’s face to suffocate her, or by trying to choke some other guy to death with his earbuds. So don’t let ’em get to you. Now. Where’s the gun?”
I raise my eyes, widening them innocently the way Howard had. “Gun? I don’t know what you’re talking about, Detective.”
“Cut the crap, Wells. Someone shot that kid. To get off a shot like that, and without injuring a hair on that girl’s head, would take a pretty decent marksman.”
“Or markswoman,” I point out. “Women are actually thought to be better shots than men, overall, because they have lighter grips and lower centers of gravity, and so a firmer stance.”
Canavan stares at me with something akin to horror. “Who the hell told you that?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” I say. “I read it on the Internet. Why, is it not true?”
“Not in my experience,” he says. “My wife and daughters won’t go anywhere near the range, and God knows I’ve been trying to get them to for the past twenty years.”
“Lack of interest,” I say, “and lack of skill are two entirely different things.”
“Did you shoot the damned kid or not, Wells? Hostage says you did.”
I’ve long since disposed of the evidence. It’s amazing what a girl can do if she’s resourceful enough, has worked in the same building long enough, and knows enough people in the right places. Oh, and is getting married in a month, and leaving for her honeymoon in Venice, and doesn’t want to deal with the hassle of an unlawful-use or possession-of-firearm charge that might keep her from traveling outside the country.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Detective,” I say sweetly.
“Neither do I,” Magda says. “I was there, and I saw the whole thing. I don’t know where the shot came from. Somewhere over there, maybe.” She points in the direction of the snack-cake rack. “Oh, he’s gone. Well, it could have been him. You know, that little girl was hysterical. Who knows what she saw?”
She finds another piece of melon in my hair and drops it onto the table.
Detective Canavan looks dissatisfied. “Right,” he says. “Why don’t I believe you two?”
I shrug. “This job has hardened you,” I say. “You really should think about retiring. Maybe let a younger detective take over for you. Maybe even me, someday.”
“God help this city if that ever happens,” Canavan mutters. He scoots his chair from the table and says, as he leaves, “Use bar soap and water on your hands, none of that antibacterial stuff. That’s the best way to remove gunpowder residue. And for God’s sake, go home to that boyfriend of yours. And finish that.” He points at the mug in front of me. “That’s an order.”
“She can’t go home,” Magda says matter-of-factly as she begins to braid my hair. I’m afraid to look at what she’s styling it into. “She has her final fitting for her wedding gown. It’s in half an hour.”
I groan. I’d forgotten all about it.
“Oh God,” I say. “I think I’m going to have to postpone that.”
“No,” Magda says, smacking me lightly on top of the head. “You can’t do that! It’s important! You have to look your best for the big day. You can’t disappoint Cooper. Besides, we’re all coming, to see how the dress has turned out.”
I groan again, and reach for the drink Canavan has doctored. “Magda, no. It’s all the way uptown and I’m just not feeling up to riding the subway right now. I’m too, uh, beautiful—”
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Canavan says disgustedly. He turns and whistles at a uniformed officer walking by. “You. Sullivan. C’mere.”
The officer hurries over. “Sir?”
“You got a patrol car, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Drive these two ladies uptown,” he says.
Officer Sullivan looks down at us in confusion. “Sir?”
“They’ve got a very important appointment,” Canavan explains tersely. “Use your lights and siren. They can’t be late.”
Sullivan looks even more confused. “I’m sorry, sir, which precinct am I taking them to uptown?”
“No precinct,” Canavan roars. “They’ve got a wedding-dress-fitting appointment. Now go!”
Which is how, forty-five minutes later, Magda and I find ourselves outside the boutique at which I bought my wedding dress, thanking Officer Sullivan and his partner, who both seem highly amused by the unusual mission.
“Next time I have an emergency,” Magda coos across the sidewalk, blowing them kisses, “I’m only calling you two!”
“You do that,” Officer Sullivan says, and smiles as he waves back. There are probably worse ways a police officer can spend a morning than transporting two blondes in the back of his cruiser.
Before I touch the door to the boutique, it’s yanked open, and Nicole Cartwright is standing there wearing a butter-yellow jumpsuit and a stricken expression on her face.
“Where have you been?” she demands. “You’re late.”
“Only a little late,” I say. “There was traffic by the Pan Am Building.”
“You couldn’t have called?” Nicole demands. “It never occurred to you that things might have gotten a little hectic here too?”
“At the bridal shop?” Magda looks at me, her drawn-on eyebrows raised. “What happened? Has someone had diarrhea in the sink like in that movie about the bridesmaids?”
“Oh my God, Huey, chill.” Jessica suddenly appears in the doorway, a glass of champagne in one hand and her cell phone in the other. “Quit blocking the doorway and let them in.”
“I’ve told you to stop calling me—”
The door is torn open from behind Jessica, and suddenly Cooper appears on crutches, his face dark with beard scruff, not to mention new purple bruises that are only now beginning to show.
“Where is she?” he demands, squinting in the sunlight. Then he sees me and, despite the obvious pain he’s in, begins to hobble toward me. “Don’t you ever—”
I have no idea what kind of threat he’s about to deliver, because I run toward him to wrap both arms around his neck and kiss him on the mouth, forgetting all about his bruised lips. He appears to forget about them too, and his cracked ribs
as well, pulling me tight against his heart and filling me with the crisp clean Cooper-ish scent of him.
“What are you doing here?” I whisper, when he finally releases me—which he has to do, since he needs at least one arm to balance on his crutches. “You’re supposed to be home, resting.”
“You think I could stay in bed after hearing you shot someone?” he whispers back, his blue eyes looking a little moist. “And then went to try on wedding dresses? You crazy kook.”
“Just one wedding dress,” I say. “And you can’t see me in it. It’s bad luck.”
“I think we’ve had all the bad luck any two human beings are allowed in one lifetime. It’s time our luck changes for the better.”
I kiss him on the nose, the one part of his face that escaped his encounter with Ricardo. “Then don’t look at me in my dress until the big day.”
The one arm he’s kept around me tightens. “Deal. And don’t you shoot anyone else until the big day. Unless they deserve it, like I hear the kid today did.”
I squeeze him back. “Deal.”
“Wow, Heather, I love your hair like that,” Jessica says as Cooper and I enter the shop, reaching up to touch the French braid Magda’s given me. “That’s a good look for you. Anyway, don’t listen to Nicole, it’s not that big a deal.”
“What’s not that big a deal?” I ask. The owner of the shop, Lizzie Nichols, gives me a warm greeting, pours glasses of champagne for both Magda and me, then goes to make sure everything is ready in my dressing room, including the vintage wedding gown I’ve purchased from her, which she’s been busy adjusting to my exact measurements. I’m not too surprised to see that Hal has accompanied Cooper to the shop and has taken up residency on a pink fainting couch beside a shabby-chic ivory-colored coffee table, looking completely uncomfortable and out of place.
