The Bride Wore Size 12
Page 81

“Hells, woman.” Gavin’s voice fills my ear. “You didn’t tell me this was Jasmine’s phone! Am I speaking into a dead girl’s phone? It’s pink and has unicorn stickers all over it. I hope ironically. Anyway, it says ‘Jazz’ on it in purple sparkles.”
I close my eyes. Thank you, God.
“Gavin,” I say, opening my eyes again. “Where was it?”
“Under his damn pillow,” Gavin says. He sounds manic with excitement. “This guy is a freak. Who keeps a dead girl’s phone under his damn pillow? I am so putting this into my screenplay. Hell, I am starting a new screenplay just so I can put this in it. You should see this shit. This guy is Hannibal Lecter the Second. How did he pass the test to become an RA? I’d make a better RA than this guy. Who hired him?”
I wince. Simon Hague, I want to reply, but I’m too professional.
“Can I have some trash bags, please?” a voice at my elbow asks.
I duck to grab some from beneath the counter.
“Gavin,” I whisper urgently into the phone, “please do as I asked. Leave Howard’s room now, and come back down here with that phone immediately.”
“Oh, hells no, I’m not leaving,” Gavin says. “This is research, dude. I have never seen anyone who makes his bed so damned tight. You could bounce quarters off this shit. This guy’s mom must have warped his brain to make him so anal.”
Mommy issues.
“Gavin.” My throat has gone dry. That’s because as I’ve straightened up to hand over the trash bags, I see the face of the person who’s asked for them.
It’s Howard Chen.
He looks as shocked as I feel. His lips are parted in confusion, his eyes wide, his fingers, on the trash bags I’ve just handed him, white-knuckled.
“Did I hear you tell Gavin to leave my room?” Howard asks. “And to come back down here with a phone?”
“No,” I say quickly, giving a completely fake laugh. “Of course not. Why would Gavin be in your room, Howard? He’s in his own room, on a break, and he’s taking way too long, which is why I’m telling him to get off the phone and get back down here.”
“Uh-oh,” Gavin says in my ear. “Got it. He’s back. Getting out of here, quick.”
There’s a click. Gavin’s hung up.
“Okay, Gavin,” I say, pretending Gavin’s still on the line. “No, I don’t care if you’re talking to your mom, I want you back down here now. I have work to do and need to get back to my office.”
I slam down the handset and roll my eyes at Howard. “God. Gavin’s so annoying sometimes, right? So, you’re going to start moving out, huh, Howard? Is that why you need trash bags? Getting rid of old stuff?”
Howard isn’t falling for my act.
“I know what I heard,” he says in a voice without a hint of humor—much like his face. “You said, ‘leave Howard’s room now, and come back down here with that phone.’ ”
“Now, why would Gavin be in your room, Howard?” I ask, walking over to the pile of newspapers on which I’ve left my purse. My heart has begun thumping a little erratically. Earlier, I had absolutely no intention of taking out the gun Hal insisted I bring to work.
Now I’m even more determined not to. What I need is my cell phone, so that I can discreetly text Pete over at the security desk and have him call 911, as well as Dr. Flynn over at psych services and also campus security.
Howard Chen may indeed be the “lying little punk” Gavin recently accused him of being, and he’s also no doubt a murderer.
But he’s also a student at this college, and a deeply disturbed one at that, who needs our help.
Instead of answering, Howard simply stares at me, his eyes narrowing. The hand on the trash bags is no longer white-knuckled.
This is a good sign. Maybe I’m getting through to him.
“That doesn’t even make any sense,” I say, taking my purse with me as I stroll casually back to the area of the desk where the reception phone sits. I have the best chance of surreptitiously slipping out my personal phone there, without his noticing.
“Why don’t you just go on up to your room and check if you’re so worried about people invading your personal space,” I say to him, confident that Gavin’s long gone from Howard’s room by now. “I’m sure you’ll find it exactly the way you left it.”
“No, I won’t,” Howard says. He’s released the trash bags completely, and slipped both hands into the deep pockets of his hoodie.
“Howard,” I say. I’ve dug my smartphone from the pocket in which I keep it. “I think you’re being a little paranoid. Maybe this whole thing with the president’s office is getting to you. I swear to you it’s going to work out, though.”
Pete, I’m texting as I speak. Howard Chen killed Jasmine. Call 911/Psych/Security. But do not alarm him! Dangerous!
I add a frowny face for emphasis and hit send.
“It’s not going to work out,” Howard says emotionlessly.
“Hey,” Gavin says, panting as he throws open the door to the desk and jogs in. “Sorry that took me so long. Thanks for the break, Heather. I was starving.”
Howard stares at him, dead-eyed. “I thought you were calling your mother.”
Gavin darts a quick glance at me. “Oh, yeah. I grabbed something to eat while I was returning her call.”
“Well, I’m glad you got that straightened out,” I say in a briskly businesslike tone, darting a glance over Howard’s shoulder at Pete. He’s received my text, thrown me a wide-eyed, startled glance, and begun pointing questioningly at Howard, who fortunately doesn’t notice since his back is to the hefty security officer.
“Yes,” I say, nodding energetically. “We definitely have it all straightened out now.”
Pete’s nodding and giving me the thumbs-up as he reaches for the phone on the wall behind him.
“I don’t think we do have this all straightened out, Heather,” Howard says somberly, and draws his smartphone from the pocket of his hoodie. He pushes a button on it.
My heart gives another staggered leap. I don’t know quite what I’m expecting—maybe for the package room to explode—but it certainly isn’t what occurs, which is that Gavin’s pajama bottoms begin playing Miley Cyrus’s “Party in the U.S.A.”