“Poor little movie stars,” Ms. Diego told

this reporter. “I am shocked. I will no longer

see their little faces here in my dining hall. Honey, take a napkin with that, you are spilling it on the floor.”

The RAs were fired for allegedly attending a party at which alcohol was allegedly served, something every college student around this globe has done at one time or another, usually without ill consequence.

The Express will continue covering this

news story until some kind of comment is given by some member of this administration.

New York College Express,

your daily student news blog

Evidence. That’s what I need. Canavan will laugh at me if I go to him with what I have so far.

Simply finding Howard’s fingerprints in Jasmine’s room won’t convict him, because they were friends, and she probably invited him into her room a number of times before the night of her murder. If his fingerprints are in the Express offices, though . . .

Wait, he’ll probably say he volunteered there, or something. That won’t convict him either, though the security tape from outside the offices of the Express just after Cameron’s attempted murder probably could, providing the footage is clear enough to see Howard’s face.

And what are the chances it is? No one’s arrested him so far. He probably had his hoodie pulled over his head.

I need more.

“Gavin,” I say. “I need you to do something for me. It’s really important, but it also might be a little dangerous, and technically also a little bit illegal.”

Gavin rises from the reception chair, planting both Goofy slippers firmly on the floor. “I’m in.”

“I haven’t even told you what it is yet.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Gavin says. “I’ve told you before, I’m your servant until the day I die. Or the day you die. Which will probably come before I die since you’re so much older than I am, but on that day I shall weep copiously until I have tears to weep no more.”

I want to roll my eyes at his theatrics, but they’re kind of cute and happen to suit my purposes at the moment.

“Okay,” I say. “I want you to use my master key to let yourself into Howard Chen’s room—it’s okay, he’s outside right now—then stand there and listen for a ring tone. If you hear it, grab the phone, come back downstairs, and give it to me. Do you think you can handle that?”

Gavin yawns. “Child’s play.”

“Good.” I unhook the building’s master key—there are only four copies; mine, Lisa’s, Carl’s, and Julio’s—from my key chain and hand it to him. “Hurry. Room fifteen-fourteen. If there’s no ring tone in five minutes, come back down, unless I call you sooner on your own smartphone. That will mean that Howard’s on his way up, and you need to get the hell out of there. Got it?”

“Got it.” Gavin is already running for the elevator. Meanwhile, I’ve taken my emergency phone list from my pocket. Jasmine Albright’s number is the first one listed on it, since her last name came first on this semester’s crew of RAs.

Funny how she’d sneered at my emergency phone list, I think, and now it just might help catch her murderer.

I figure I’ll give Gavin a minute to catch the elevator, then key into Howard’s room before I dial. Howard is still outside with the other fired RAs, talking to the protesting freshmen. This is going to work. It’s going to work fine.

Of course, it’s likely Howard’s destroyed Jasmine’s phone. What kind of fool would keep such an incriminating piece of evidence?

Then again, Howard hasn’t shown many signs of intelligence so far. Funny how med students—and even doctors—can be so bright about some things and so dumb about others.

“Excuse me.” An impossibly young-looking girl approaches the desk, speaking in a voice so low it’s practically a whisper.

“Yes?” I say to her.

“I heard a rumor you guys give away”—her voice drops even lower, so low I have to lean forward to hear her—“free toilet paper here. Is that true?”

“The rumors are true,” I say, and hand her two rolls from the shelf beneath the phone. “Enjoy.”

The girl’s face brightens as if I’ve handed her rolls of twenty-dollar bills. “Oh, thank you,” she cries, and rushes off.

Considering how much her family is paying in tuition, you wouldn’t think free toilet paper would make her so delighted. But I’m glad to have brightened someone’s day.

I’m sure Gavin couldn’t have gotten to Howard’s room yet, but I pick up the desk phone and dial Jasmine’s number anyway. It rings four times before her voice mail picks up.

“Hey, you’ve reached Jazz.” She sounds confident and happy. Obviously she couldn’t have known at the time she was recording this message what kind of fate was awaiting her. “You know what to do.”

Beep.

I hang up and dial again. Please, I pray as I do so. Please let Gavin pick up. I know there’s no such thing as closure. But please help us find the person who did this to Jasmine, so we can keep him from ever doing it to anyone else again.

“Hey,” Pete calls, from across the lobby at the security desk. “What are you doing over there, Heather?”

“Oh, filling in for Gavin for a few minutes while he gets something to eat,” I say, dialing again.

Pete looks around the empty lobby. “I didn’t see him go into the caf.”

“No,” I say casually. “He went up to his room. He has some special cereal he likes.”

What am I doing? I ask myself as Jasmine’s phone rings in my ear. I’m even lying to my closest friends and coworkers now. I’ve gone insane.

This probably has to do with what happened yesterday, the thing with Cooper and my mother and Ricardo. That’s what Lisa would say anyway, if she were here. That I should go see a therapist, because I have issues. Mommy issues. It always goes back to our mothers. Isn’t that what shrinks are always supposed to say?

“Who are you on the phone with?” Pete wants to know.

“Oh, no one,” I say, hanging up. “Wrong number.”

A second later, I pick up and dial one last time. Come on, Gavin, I pray. Great. Now I’m praying to Gavin. Pick up. Pick up. Pick—