The Bride Wore Size 12

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.