“Ms. Wells,” Special Agent Lancaster snaps, pausing his phone conversation. “The reason for my presence here is on a need-to-know basis, and Ms. Kovalenko does not need to. It has nothing to do with this girl’s unfortunate death.”

Eva looks at me questioningly. I shrug. “As far as I know,” I say, “it doesn’t.”

“Well,” she says, her lips forming a hard line. “Ramon and I will be the judge of that, won’t we . . . if he ever finds a place to park the van. What’s going on out there in front of the building, anyway?”

“What do you mean?”

“There are all these buses parked outside, and kids getting onto them.”

Suddenly I remember.

“Oh God.” I put a hand to my mouth. “Casino Night.” I’d totally forgotten.

“What night?” Eva asks.

“Casino Night.” I shake my head. “It’s part of orientation week for the new students. All the kids are being taken on a harbor cruise around Manhattan for mocktails and gambling. Not real gambling, of course, there’s no cash involved, they win prizes like New York College sweatshirts and other swag.”

Eva shakes her head. “Things have certainly changed from when I went to college. We thought it was cool when they gave us free hot dogs to grill over a hibachi in the quad. Now you people take them on cruises around Manhattan.”

“Well,” I say. “Hibachis aren’t allowed anymore, because they’re considered a fire hazard.”

Eva rolls her eyes. “Of course. We wouldn’t want any of them learning a skill that might actually come in handy someday, such as barbecuing, would we?” She throws Special Agent Lancaster a narrow-eyed glance. “When my boy Ramon gets here you’ll let him through, right, 007? Or are you going to shoot him?”

Special Agent Lancaster eyes her. Is it my imagination, or is he smiling a little? If so, it would be a first.

“That depends,” he says drily. “Your boy Ramon have ID?”

“No,” Eva replies sarcastically. “He likes to roam around the city with body bags and a gurney for fun.”

I’ve sunk down onto the bed opposite Jasmine’s body, feeling a little queasy, and hope it’s because of the situation—or the tuna salad sandwich I hastily grabbed for lunch from the dining hall—and not because I’ve picked up Lisa’s flu. It’s close to five o’clock, and all I want to do is go home, crawl into bed, and stay there, preferably with my dog, Cooper, some popcorn, the remote, and a large alcoholic beverage. Maybe not in that order.

“Looks like you lucked out this time.” Eva’s conversational tone rouses me from my fantasy of a vodka-and-cheese-popcorn-soaked Say Yes to the Dress marathon. “No blood spatter or body fluids for your housekeeping crew to have to clean up. God, we couldn’t believe how many messy ones you guys had last year. Those girls in the elevator shafts? Oh, and the head in the pot in the cafeteria? Man, that one took the prize.”

“I’d have preferred not to be eligible for that contest, especially not this year,” I say weakly. “It’s freshman orientation week right now.”

“I see what you mean.” Eva is raising the dead girl’s eyelids to examine her pupils. “It’s kind of early to say what the cause of death is without tox screens, but I don’t see any sign of trauma. You find any prescription pill bottles lying around?”

I’m not surprised by the question. Prescription drug overdose, we were told at an incredibly boring drug-and-alcohol-awareness training session over the summer, is one of the leading causes of death for young adults (after accidents). Someone dies of a prescription pill overdose every nineteen minutes in this country.

“No.” Surprisingly, it’s Special Agent Lancaster who replies. “There’s a bottle of Tylenol in her medicine cabinet.” He nods toward 1416’s bathroom. Unlike many residence halls, all rooms in Fischer Hall have private baths. The building once housed floor-through apartments for some of Manhattan’s wealthiest socialites. Few of the architectural details of those days remain (except in the lobby and cafeteria, which used to be a ballroom), but residents don’t have to go down the hallway to shower. “But it still has the protective seal on it.”

Eva nods as if this is what she expects to hear. She’s feeling the victim’s jaw. “She’s been dead at least twelve hours. Probably passed away last night sometime around . . . I’m going to say three in the morning. She have any preexisting conditions that you knew of?”

“Asthma, according to her student file.” I’d grabbed it on my way upstairs, then skimmed it during the elevator ride to the fourteenth floor.

Special Agent Lancaster says, “Her inhaler is over there on the dresser. It seems like it’s plenty close enough for her to grab.”

“And it’s practically full,” I say, then blush, not having meant to let that slip. We weren’t supposed to have touched anything, but the inhaler is something I found after Cooper left and, because his paranoia about Jasmine’s missing cell phone had made me suspicious, I’d lifted it—using Jasmine’s discarded shirt from the day before—and given it a shake.

Eva doesn’t notice. She picks up the inhaler and gives it a shake herself, then drops it into an evidence bag.

“We’ll take a look at it,” she says, marking something down on her clipboard. “You know, people don’t take asthma as seriously as they should. About nine people a day die from it. It’s one of this country’s most common and costly diseases. She could have had an asthma attack brought on by a reaction to an allergen. Speaking of,” she adds, “my mom thinks she’s allergic to gluten. She’s not, of course. But I’m putting up with it to keep the peace. So if you guys could serve some gluten-free stuff at your wedding, that would be great. Not necessarily a whole separate gluten-free cake, but like some fresh fruit, or whatever.”

“Um,” I say. “Okay. I’ll have the wedding planner make sure the caterer knows.”

Not that I mind that Eva and her mother are coming to my wedding, but I wonder again how they got an invitation. I know I didn’t put them on my list. Granted, my list is pretty lame—it has fewer than fifty people on it, most of whom work either for New York College or the NYPD. From my family, there is only my father and his sister. I haven’t spoken to my mother in over a decade. Even if I had her address—which I don’t—no way would I have invited her. Weddings are supposed to be occasions for joy, not psychodrama.