that one left, guarding the elevator shaft until the coroner can get here to take her away. Since they decided her death was accidental, I guess they figured there was no reason to stay.”
I think this is a very diplomatic response, considering what I want to say about Detective Canavan and his cronies.
“But you think they’re wrong,” Cooper says. A statement, not a question.
“Someone took that key, Coop,” I say. “And put it back when no one was looking. I’m not making it up. I’m not insane.”
Although, the way my voice rises on the word insane , that claim may actually be debatable.
But Cooper’s not here to debate it.
“I know,” he says gently. “I believe you. I’m here, aren’t I?”
“I know,” I say, regretting my outburst. “And thanks. Well. Let’s go.”
Cooper looks hesitant. “Wait. Go where?”
“Roberta’s room,” I say. I hold up the master key I’ve swiped from the key box. “I think we should check her room first.”
“For what?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “But we have to start somewhere.”
Cooper looks at the key, then back at me.
“I want you to know,” Cooper says, “that I think this is a bad idea.”
“I know,” I say. Because I do.
“So why are we doing it?”
I am about five seconds from bursting into tears. I’ve felt this way since Jessica first burst into my office with the news about another death, and my humiliation in front of Detective Canavan hasn’t helped the matter any.
But I struggle to keep the hysteria from my voice.
“Because this is happening in my building. It’s happening to my girls. And I want to be sure it’s happening the way these cops and everyone are saying it’s happening, and that it’s not…you know. What I’m thinking.”
“Heather,” he says. “Remember when ‘Sugar Rush’ first came out, and all that fan mail started arriving at the Cartwright Records offices, and you insisted on reading it all, and personally answering it?”
I bristle. I can’t help it.
“Hello,” I say. “I was fifteen.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Cooper says. “Because in fifteen years, you haven’t changed. You still feel personally responsible for every person with whom you come in contact—even people you’ve never met. Like the reason you were put on earth is to look out for everybody else on it.”
“That’s not true,” I say. “And it’s only been thirteen years.”
“Heather,” he says, ignoring me. “Sometimes kids do stupid things. And then other kids, because they are, in fact, just kids, imitate them. And they die. It happens. It doesn’t mean a crime has been committed.”
“Yeah?” I am bristling more than ever. “What about the key? What about that ?”
He still doesn’t look convinced.
“I want you to know,” he says, “that I’m only doing this to keep you from making an even bigger mess out of things than they’re already in—something, by the way, at which you seem to excel.”
“You know, Coop,” I say. “I appreciate that vote of confidence. I really do.”
“I just don’t want you to lose your day job,” he says. “I can’t afford to give you health benefits on top of room and board.”
“Thanks,” I say snarkily. “Thanks so much.”
But it doesn’t matter. Because he comes with me.
It’s a long, long walk up to Roberta Pace’s room at the sixteenth floor. We can’t, of course, take the elevator, because they’ve been shut down. The only sound I hear, when we finally reach the long, empty hallway, is the sound of our own breathing. Mine, in particular, is heavy.
Other than that, it’s quiet. Dead quiet. Then again, it’s before noon. Most of the residents—the ones who hadn’t been awakened by the ambulance and fire engine sirens—are still sleeping off last night’s beer.
I point the way with my set of keys and start toward 1622. Cooper follows me, looking around at the posters on the hallway walls urging students to go to Health
I think this is a very diplomatic response, considering what I want to say about Detective Canavan and his cronies.
“But you think they’re wrong,” Cooper says. A statement, not a question.
“Someone took that key, Coop,” I say. “And put it back when no one was looking. I’m not making it up. I’m not insane.”
Although, the way my voice rises on the word insane , that claim may actually be debatable.
But Cooper’s not here to debate it.
“I know,” he says gently. “I believe you. I’m here, aren’t I?”
“I know,” I say, regretting my outburst. “And thanks. Well. Let’s go.”
Cooper looks hesitant. “Wait. Go where?”
“Roberta’s room,” I say. I hold up the master key I’ve swiped from the key box. “I think we should check her room first.”
“For what?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “But we have to start somewhere.”
Cooper looks at the key, then back at me.
“I want you to know,” Cooper says, “that I think this is a bad idea.”
“I know,” I say. Because I do.
“So why are we doing it?”
I am about five seconds from bursting into tears. I’ve felt this way since Jessica first burst into my office with the news about another death, and my humiliation in front of Detective Canavan hasn’t helped the matter any.
But I struggle to keep the hysteria from my voice.
“Because this is happening in my building. It’s happening to my girls. And I want to be sure it’s happening the way these cops and everyone are saying it’s happening, and that it’s not…you know. What I’m thinking.”
“Heather,” he says. “Remember when ‘Sugar Rush’ first came out, and all that fan mail started arriving at the Cartwright Records offices, and you insisted on reading it all, and personally answering it?”
I bristle. I can’t help it.
“Hello,” I say. “I was fifteen.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Cooper says. “Because in fifteen years, you haven’t changed. You still feel personally responsible for every person with whom you come in contact—even people you’ve never met. Like the reason you were put on earth is to look out for everybody else on it.”
“That’s not true,” I say. “And it’s only been thirteen years.”
“Heather,” he says, ignoring me. “Sometimes kids do stupid things. And then other kids, because they are, in fact, just kids, imitate them. And they die. It happens. It doesn’t mean a crime has been committed.”
“Yeah?” I am bristling more than ever. “What about the key? What about that ?”
He still doesn’t look convinced.
“I want you to know,” he says, “that I’m only doing this to keep you from making an even bigger mess out of things than they’re already in—something, by the way, at which you seem to excel.”
“You know, Coop,” I say. “I appreciate that vote of confidence. I really do.”
“I just don’t want you to lose your day job,” he says. “I can’t afford to give you health benefits on top of room and board.”
“Thanks,” I say snarkily. “Thanks so much.”
But it doesn’t matter. Because he comes with me.
It’s a long, long walk up to Roberta Pace’s room at the sixteenth floor. We can’t, of course, take the elevator, because they’ve been shut down. The only sound I hear, when we finally reach the long, empty hallway, is the sound of our own breathing. Mine, in particular, is heavy.
Other than that, it’s quiet. Dead quiet. Then again, it’s before noon. Most of the residents—the ones who hadn’t been awakened by the ambulance and fire engine sirens—are still sleeping off last night’s beer.
I point the way with my set of keys and start toward 1622. Cooper follows me, looking around at the posters on the hallway walls urging students to go to Health
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