Patty flicks an accusing look at Tom, who shrugs and says, “Oh yeah, I forgot to tell you, Heather. Patty called while you were next door with Owen’s ex. Oooh, you got the May issue! My God, it weighs as much as a Thanksgiving turkey.”

“I can’t believe you told him first and not me.” Patty, who even when not pregnant has a tendency to glow in an irritatingly radiant manner, lowers herself with a dancer’s grace into the blue vinyl chair beside my desk and picks up one of the magazines. “I think she should go with pure white. Ivory will make her look sallow. What do you think, Tom?”

“I was thinking just the opposite,” Tom says, settling down at my desk. “A cream will bring out the rosy tones in her skin.”

“Do you know there’s a gigantic rat across the street from your building, with all sorts of people parading around it?” Patty asks. “And when were you going to tell me about your boss being shot in the head yesterday, Heather? This is ridiculous. How long do you plan on working in this death trap? You can’t have lost another boss.”

“I was telling her to wait until she’s had eight,” Tom says, with a laugh, “then quit, and say—”

“—eight is enough!” they both finish.

“Hold that thought,” I say, “I’ll be right back.”

And I dart from the office before either of them can say another word, or look up from the glossy photo they are admiring, of a Jackie O style wedding gown that in a million, trillion years would never look good on a girl like me.

14

You are my little sippy cup

If I drop you and I pick you up

You won’t have spilled

Then I can drink you up

“Stab Me in the Eyeballs”

Written by Heather Wells

“I don’t get it,” I say, as we cruise up the Hutchinson River Parkway.

“What don’t you get?” Cooper wants to know.

Other cars are passing us at an alarming rate, some of the drivers giving us dirty looks—and even dirtier gestures—as they go by.

But Cooper doesn’t seem to mind. He is being supremely cautious with his ’74 2002 BMW, handling it as softly as a baby—which is a good thing, because a jolt—or anything over fifty-five miles per hour—could shake the ancient four-door apart.

I feel lucky to have caught him after a recent cleaning binge. My feet, for once, aren’t sitting in three inches of fast-food detritus, but on the actual floor mats the car came with.

“When Sarah and Gavin asked you yesterday if you’d drive them to Rock Ridge, you said no. But when I told you I needed to get up there, you couldn’t grab the keys fast enough.” I study his profile curiously. “What gives?”

“Do you think there’s a distance I wouldn’t go,” Cooper asks, shifting, “for a chance to see that kid in the slammer?”

I roll my eyes. Of course the reason he’d dived for the keys the minute I’d walked into his office and said, “I need a ride to Westchester. Gavin’s in jail,” had been because he’d wanted to laugh at Gavin for getting caught with his pants down, not because he knows I entertain big-sisterly feelings for Gavin and had wanted to help get him out of the jam he’s currently in.

Men.

On the other hand… men. I try not to be overly conscious of the sexiness of the sleek dark hairs on the back of the hand on the gearshift next to me. What is wrong with me, anyway? I already have a boyfriend. A boyfriend who wants to marry me. I’m pretty sure.

It’s just that the backs of Tad’s hands aren’t hairy. Not that he doesn’t have hair on them. It’s just that he’s blond, so you can’t really see them.

Not that hairy hands or lack thereof necessarily constitute sexiness or anything. There just seems to be something particularly sexy—even predatory, in a sort of thrillingly masculine way—about Cooper’s. It’s hard not to think about how those hands would feel on my naked body. All over my naked body.

“Why are you staring at my fingers?” Cooper wants to know.

Oh God.

“I just d-don’t,” I stammer, tearing my gaze from his hand. “D-don’t understand how Sebastian could have shot Owen. I mean, I saw Sebastian right after the murder. Like a couple hours after. And he was joking around. There’s no way he could have done it. No way he’s that good of an actor.”

“Ah. So you’re going for the old just-because-he-had-the-murder-weapon-on-him-doesn’t-mean-he-did-it defense,” Cooper says, with a shrug. “Well, it’s an oldie, but goodie. But I suppose someone else could have shot the guy and slipped the gun in Sebastian’s bag… ”

“Exactly!” I cry, brightening, as a Volvo station wagon being driven by an angelic-looking soccer mom—who gives us the finger—passes us just as we’re merging onto I–684. “That has to be what happened. So that means it has to have been someone with whom Sebastian came into contact yesterday morning, sometime between the murder and his arrest. Which,” I add, glumly, “could’ve been a million and a half people. I’m sure he was all over campus, between his classes, his GSC stuff, and everything else Sebastian is into. I saw him in the chess circle in the park with Sarah and all those reporters. Any one of those homeless guys in there could’ve walked up and slipped anything they wanted into that bag, and he never would’ve noticed. No one would’ve.”

“Well, I’m sure his lawyers are on it,” Cooper says calmly.

“Don’t they need to find, I don’t know, gunpowder residue on his hands?” I ask. “And witnesses?”

“He’s got motive,” Cooper says. “And the murder weapon. And no alibi. The DA’s probably thinking this one’s pretty open-and-shut.”

“Right. Except for one thing,” I grumble. “Sebastian didn’t do it.”

My cell phone chirps. Patty’s on the line. I know she can’t be particularly pleased with me, but I’m surprised by just how immediately she makes her unhappiness with me known when I pick up.

“Right back?” she barks. “You’re on your way to Westchester? But you’ll be right back?”

“I had to go,” I say. Patty’s normally the most cheerful of women. Except when she’s in her first trimester. And second. And, now that I think back to right before Indiana was born, her third, too. In fact, pretty much during her whole pregnancy. “I didn’t want to get into it right then.”