“We didn’t do anything wrong,” I remind Sarah. “The paintball guns were bad, I’ll admit, but they’re owned by the college. No one got hurt. At least,” I add after a second thought, “no students.”

Cooper had reported back from his trip to Beth Israel Medical Center that Tania’s bodyguard’s injuries were a little more extensive than Stephanie led us to believe. Though Bear was expected to make a full recovery, not only had he had to have his spleen removed, but the bullet had gone straight through it and into his foot. He had weeks of physical therapy ahead of him.

Nevertheless, according to Cooper, it looked as if the shooting really had been completely random. The police found a shell casing they thought matched the bullet that struck Bear, but it was on the rooftop of an apartment building across the street from Epiphany that was littered with shell casings from dozens of other bullets as well . . . not to mention the remains of numerous firecrackers, discarded condoms, empty forty-ounce bottles of beer, and even a hibachi grill. This rooftop was obviously a popular hangout for kids, in addition to being accessible by residents of all the buildings across the street from Epiphany. (Access one roof and it was an easy leap to another.)

Other than from Cooper and Access Hollywood, I had heard nothing more about the incident. I saw neither Christopher nor Stephanie Brewer again in Fischer Hall, though I checked the sign-in logs for both of them every morning. There was no record of them having come back, though, and no mention in the press of anything related to Fischer Hall.

“I don’t know,” Sarah says. “Do you think Simon told about the beer? And the vodka?”

I grit my teeth. “Everyone was over twenty-one—”

“Well, whatever the deal is, it doesn’t make a very good impression to be caught taking a two-hour lunch on your new boss’s first day.”

She’s right about that. I need to get it together—

As if in answer to an unspoken prayer, I see a yellow streak out of the corner of my eye. At first I’m sure it can only be an illusion, a hallucination brought on by nerves. Then it slides into focus, and I realize my luck might actually be changing for the better: it’s a New York City cab with the light on its roof glowing bright yellow, indicating that it’s unoccupied. This is as rare a sight in this part of town as a hundred-dollar bill floating down from the heavens.

I leap upon it just as quickly. I don’t shout “Taxi!” like they always show New Yorkers doing in movies and on TV shows, because that only alerts the unsuspecting people around you that there’s a vacant cab nearby. Then the people closest to it will try to snag it before you can.

Instead, I make a run for it, yanking on the handle of its back passenger door as the light turns green and the cab begins to move.

“Sorry,” I say to the driver as he jams on the brakes and looks around, startled to find a passenger climbing into his backseat. “I need to go to 55 Washington Square West. Can you take me there?”

The driver pauses in the conversation he’s having on his hands-free cell phone long enough to say, “That’s only eight blocks from here.”

“I know,” I say.

I try not to feel as if he’s judging me. He probably isn’t. He’s probably thinking I’m a tourist who doesn’t know how close she is to her destination.

“It’s eight long blocks,” I say. “And I’m super late. And it’s so hot.”

The driver smiles, hits the meter, and continues his cell-phone conversation in his native Farsi. I relax, feeling the cool air conditioning blast from the little vent at my feet. I actually might have died and gone to heaven. Maybe everything’s going to be all right . . .

“My God!” I hear Sarah’s voice shout from my hand. I’ve forgotten I’m still holding my phone. “You’re still eight blocks away? They’re going to be here any minute!”

“Stall them,” I lift the phone to my face to instruct her. “Tell them I went to Disbursements. Tell them—”

“Oh,” I hear Sarah say. “Hi, Dr. Jessup. You’re here already?”

Then she hangs up on me.

I’m so dead.

Chapter 7

Haters
Take a picture
Write it down
I don’t give a ****
I know you think
You’ll take me down
Well, boy, I wish you luck
I got haters
All around me
Up and in my face
You think you’re gonna
Take me down
Get into my space
Well here’s a tweet
A super text
An e-mail voice iCall
Take more than you
To bring me down
So write that on your wall

“Haters”
Performed by Tania Trace
Written by Weinberger/Trace
So Sue Me album
Cartwright Records
Eleven consecutive weeks
in the Top 10 Billboard Hot 100
I jump out of the cab as soon as it pulls up in front of Fischer Hall, throwing a ten-dollar bill into the front seat. The driver, still on his phone call, is once again startled, but I don’t stop to wait for change, and he certainly doesn’t stop to give it.

“Thanks!” he cries. “Have a great day!”

Too late.

I’m confused to see a fleet of delivery trucks outside the building. Moving men are unloading bubble-wrapped furniture, using the gray plastic carts reserved for Fischer Hall residents only.

This sight sets my already overtaxed heart beating unsteadily. When I see some of the men pushing the carts toward the Fischer Hall handicapped-accessible ramp, I begin to have palpitations.

“Excuse me,” I go up to one of the men and say, “but who is this delivery for?”

He’s as sweaty as I was a few minutes ago. He’s been working hard for some time apparently and hasn’t had a nice air-conditioned cab ride to cool off.

He looks down at his clipboard. “Heather Wells,” he says, a bit impatiently, “Fischer Hall, 55 Washington Square West,” and goes back to pushing his cart, which appears to be filled with an unassembled Ikea bedroom set.

“Wait a minute,” I say, catching his arm, which is quite buff, if a bit moist with perspiration. “There must be some mistake. I didn’t order any of these things.” There are literally five trucks in front of me. “And this building is closed for renovations.”

The man shrugs. “Well, this person here signed for it,” he says, pointing at the bottom of his clipboard. “So you’re getting it whether you ordered it or not.”