The Bride Wore Size 12

Lisa shrugs. “Well, I slept like a log last night. Cory said I snored.”

“It’s probably all the stress,” I say. “And the flu, leaving your body. Is that Tabasco sauce or ketchup on that burrito?”

“Both,” she says, shoveling more of it into her mouth. “Anyway, we’re going to have a long day ahead of us. That Fowler woman—”

“Muffy,” I say. “Head of media relations.”

“Whatever. She thinks it’s in our best interest to keep Jasmine’s death out of the press because of Prince Rashid and the animosity toward him on the part of some in the college community.”

“Gee,” I say, sarcastically. “You think?”

“So we can’t send out a mass text to the residents saying one of the RAs died, even though I understand that’s what the college does under normal circumstances. We can’t even advertise that there’ll be grief counselors available if anyone feels the need to see one, though Dr. Flynn and Dr. Kilgore are going to be here all day, for any residents or staff who want to talk about what happened. That includes you, by the way.”

I turn my head, my mouth full of bagel, to stare at her. “Me? Why would I need to talk to anyone?”

“Heather, you sat with a young girl’s dead body all day yesterday,” Lisa says. “Then you went home and your mom, who abandoned you a decade ago, dropped by unannounced. I think there’s a possibility you might need to talk to a mental health specialist. There’s no shame in it, you know. Cory and I saw a shrink before we got married. We still go sometimes. It’s fun.”

“Fun?” I can’t stop staring at her. “How is telling some shrink your darkest secrets fun?”

“That’s not the fun part,” Lisa says. “It’s that the shrinks sometimes point out that stuff you didn’t think was that important probably really is important, and after it’s been pointed out, you realize all these ways you’ve been sabotaging your own life. Like maybe you do have some issues about your mom abandoning you when you were in your late teens, even though you think you’re over it, and that’s what makes you feel so overprotective of the kids who live here, who are also in their late teens.”

“Of course I have issues about my mom,” I say, maybe a little more defensively than I mean to. “I don’t need a shrink to point that out. I’m totally envious of people who have loving relationships with their mothers. I’ll never have that. But that doesn’t mean I’m overprotective of the kids who live here. I’m only doing my job. It’s not my fault they keep getting themselves killed.”

“Okay, okay,” Lisa says, wadding up the tin foil her burrito had been wrapped in—amazingly, she’d eaten the whole thing. She must have been pretty hungry after throwing up so much the day before—and shooting a perfect three-pointer into the trash basket. “Forget I ever mentioned it. Anyway, we have a meeting set up this afternoon with a candidate for Jasmine’s position who Dr. Jessup swears will be perfect.”

“Wow,” I say. “That was fast.”

“Well, we need to get the ball rolling on finding a replacement. The sooner we find a good match, the sooner the staff can begin to heal. And Dr. Jessup says this candidate is a winner. The only reason he didn’t make the original cut was because he applied late. He’s a little bit older, a transfer student from New Mexico, Dave something or other.”

“Okay,” I say. “Well, good, I look forward to meeting Dave something or other.”

“Ha,” Lisa says. “You’re funny. He’s coming at two. Jasmine’s parents will be meeting with us—and Dr. Jessup and Dr. Flynn—a little later. Maybe by then the coroner’s office will know how Jasmine died.”

The phone on her desk begins to ring.

“And so it begins,” she says, and lifts the receiver. “Hello, Fischer Hall director’s office, Lisa Wu speaking.”

I finish my bagel while I listen to her say “Uh-huh” and “Yes, I understand” to whoever is on the other end of the phone, probably not even conscious the whole time that she keeps tugging at her bra like it isn’t fitting correctly.

Do I need therapy? I wonder. Maybe what I need is some time off. Not for my honeymoon—I’m already getting that. Cooper and I are going to Italy—but now, right now, so I can deal with all this wedding crap and maybe my mom. (Not that Lisa’s right. My issues with my mom aren’t psychological. They’re purely practical.)

I suspect Cooper might be right, and that whatever has brought Mom back to the United States has nothing to do with me, despite her claim that she’s here to help with my wedding. It’s probably a good idea for him to find out why she’s really here, before the actual reason blows up in my face, as things concerning my mother have a tendency to do.

Patty’s right, too. This place should give me an honorary degree. I’ve already mastered the art of critical thinking. And what about all the criminals I’ve caught on campus?

This reminds me of Prince Rashid’s extracurricular activities, so after I’ve finished my bagel and returned the plate to the dining hall, I stop by the security desk on my way back to my office.

“Hey, Pete,” I say casually. “Looking forward to seeing you out of that uniform and in a suit at my wedding, Magda looking hot on your arm.”

Pete doesn’t fall for it.

“Whaddaya want, Heather?” he asks. He’s gotten portlier than he’d like to be since he started dating Magda, and his daughter, Nancy, who is something of a math and science prodigy though she’s still only in junior high, had explained to him that if his LDL cholesterol got any “lousier,” he’d probably have a heart attack. He needed to up his HDL, or “happy” cholesterol, she’d explained, and stop eating all the free donuts Magda kept sneaking him from the caf.

So lately Magda has been bringing him free carrot sticks.

This has not put him in a very good mood.

“I want to see the sign-in logs for the past few nights,” I say.

All residents are required to sign in each of their guests, who are supposed to show picture ID before entering the building, ID they then leave with the security guard during their stay.

“Particularly for Prince Rashid,” I go on. “Also, can you roll back any video you have on the hallway outside his room during the evening?”