“Heather, you could seriously injure, if not kill, yourself doing something that stupid,” he says, making it pretty obvious that the snatching me into his arms thing isn’t going to happen. “How could you—” Then his blue eyes crinkle into slits as he narrows them at me. “Wait a minute. You like it.”

I blink at him. “What?” Yeah, that’s me. Miss Ready with a Comeback.

“You do.” He shakes his head, looking stunned. “You actually enjoyed that just now, didn’t you?”

I shrug, not sure what he’s talking about. “It’s more fun than doing payroll,” I say.

“You like it,” he goes on, as if I hadn’t even said anything, “because you miss the thrill of standing up in front of thousands of kids and singing your guts out.”

I stare at him for a second or two. Then I burst out laughing.

“Oh my God,” I manage to get out, between guffaws. “Are you serious with this?”

Except that I can tell by his expression that he is.

“Laugh all you want,” he says. “You hated singing the schlock the label gave you to sing, but you got a kick out of performing. Don’t try to deny it. It gave you a thrill.” His blue eyes crackle at me. “That’s what all this is about, isn’t it? Trolling for murderers and chasing elevator surfers. You miss the excitement.”

I stop laughing and feel color heating up my face again. I don’t know what he’s talking about.

Well, okay, maybe I did. It’s true I’m not one of those people who get nervous about performing in front of a crowd. Ask me to make small talk with thirty people at a cocktail party, and you might as well ask me to define the Pythagorean theorem. But give me a song set and stick me in front of a microphone? No problem. In fact…

Well, I sort of enjoy it. A lot.

But do I miss it? Maybe a little. But not enough to go back. Oh no. I can never go back.

Unless it’s on my terms.

“That’s not why I went after Gavin,” I say. Because really, I don’t see the connection. Chasing after elevator surfers is nothing like performing in front of three thousand screaming preteens. Nothing at all. Besides, don’t I get enough psychoanalyzing from Sarah every day? Do I really need it from Cooper, too? “He could have killed himself up there—”

“You could have killed yourself up there.”

“No, I couldn’t,” I say, in my most reasonable voice. “I’m really careful. And as for—what did you call it? Trolling for murderers?—I told you, I don’t believe those girls were—”

“Heather.” He shakes his head. “Why don’t you just give your agent a call and ask him to schedule a gig for you?”

My jaw drops.

“What? What are you talking about?”

“It’s obvious you’re aching to get out there again. I respect the fact that you want to get a degree, but college isn’t for everyone, you know.”

“But—” I can’t believe what I’m hearing. My hospital ward! My Nobel Prize! My date with him! Our joint detective agency and three kids—Jack, Emily, and baby Charlotte!

“I…I couldn’t!” I cry. Then latch on to my one excuse: “I don’t have enough songs for a gig.”

“Could have fooled me,” Cooper says, his gaze on the numbers of the floors we’re passing at a dizzying speed, 14, 12, 11….

“What—what do you mean?” I stammer, my blood suddenly running cold. It’s true, then. He can hear me practicing He can!

It’s Cooper’s turn to look uncomfortable, though. From his scowl, it’s clear he wishes he hadn’t said anything.

“Never mind,” he says. “Forget about it.”

“No. You meant something by it.” Why won’t he just admit it? Admit that he’s heard me?

I know why. I know why, and it makes me want to die.

Because he hates them. My songs. He’s heard them, and he thinks they suck.

“Tell me what you meant.”

“Never mind,” Cooper says. “You’re right. You don’t have enough songs for a gig. Forget I said anything. Okay?”

The cab hits the main floor. Cooper yanks back the gate and holds it open for me, looking less polite than murderous.

Great. Now he’s mad at me.

We’re standing in the lobby, and since it’s still pretty early in the morning—for eighteen-year-olds, anyway—we’re the only ones around, with the exception of Pete and the reception desk attendant, the former engrossed in a copy of the Daily News, the latter listening enraptured to a Marilyn Manson CD.

I should just ask him. Just come out and ask him. He’s not going to say it sucks. He’s not his father. He’s not Jordan.

But that’s just it. I can take criticism from Cooper’s father. I can take it from his brother. But from Cooper?

No. No, because if he doesn’t like it—

Oh God, stop being such a baby and DO IT. JUST ASK HIM.

“Heather,” Cooper says, running a hand through his dark hair. “Look. I just think—”

But before I have a chance to hear what Cooper just thinks, Rachel rounds the corner.

“Oh, there you are,” Rachel says when she notices us. “Gavin’s in my conference room. I’m going to have a word with him in a minute. Thanks so much for making him come down. In the meantime, Heather, I was wondering if you could have the student worker go around and tape up these fliers.”

Rachel hands me a sheaf of papers. I look down at them, and see that they are announcements for a lip-synch contest the student government has decided to throw in the Fischer Hall cafeteria after dinner.

“At first I wasn’t going to let them,” Rachel seems to feel the need to explain. “I mean, holding something as silly as a lip-synch contest, in light of two such tragic deaths…but Stan thinks the kids can use something to take their minds off it. And I couldn’t help but agree.”

Stan. Wow. Rachel sure is getting chummy with the boss.

“Sounds good to me,” I say.

“I was just heading into the cafeteria for a refill before tackling Gavin.” Rachel holds up her American Association for Counseling and Development coffee mug. “Anybody care to join me?”

She says it to both of us, but her gaze is on Cooper.