Jasmine Tsai isn’t the only one waving a letter.

“Miss Wells,” Hamad says woodenly, holding the letter I sent to Rashid the day before. “May we speak to you about this?”

“Yes, you absolutely may,” I say, moving into the seat Sarah’s rapidly vacated and placing my bagel and coffee drink on my desk. I have the feeling it’s going to be a long time until I’m going to enjoy them. “At nine o’clock, when the prince’s appointment begins.”

Hamad looks toward the ceiling . . . at Carl, who is pulling wiring through one of the ceiling tiles he’s removed and paying rapt attention to all the drama going on below him while pretending to be working.

“No, Miss Wells,” Hamad says in a tired voice. “Now.”

“I don’t mind waiting,” Rashid says, from the couch. He’s practically hidden by the shadows of his protectors. “I’m happy to meet with Miss Wells.”

“The prince of Qalif shouldn’t have to—”

“Be held to a different disciplinary standard than the rest of the residents in the building?” I shake my head. “I don’t think so.” I’m stalling for time. Ameera hasn’t shown up yet for her appointment. But it’s still only three minutes to nine.

“Discipline?” Hamad’s face looks like it’s going to melt off, he’s getting so hot under the collar. “You dare to suggest a prince of the royal blood will be disciplined by—”

“I need the free room and board I was promised!” Howard Chen yells, unable to contain himself a second longer. “My parents can’t afford to send both me and my brother to school at the same time unless I have free room and board!”

“How could you and Lisa let this happen?” Kyle Cheeseman screams at me. “I thought you guys liked us!”

“Lisa and I didn’t let this happen,” I say. “All of you let this happen when you exercised such poor judgment by going to a party in the residence hall where you work. Just what, exactly, were you thinking? There was alcohol at that party, being served to minors. You’re RAs, remember? You’re supposed to bust parties like that. Then you lied to Lisa the next day about why you felt sick.” I make quotation marks in the air with my fingers when I say the word “sick.”

“When Lisa told you that she felt sick—which she genuinely was—you dummies let her believe you had the flu. But you didn’t, did you? What you actually were was hungover. How long did you think it was going to take for her to find out? You do know there are monitors all over the fifteenth-floor hallway, to help protect our VIR?”

I don’t wait for any of them to speak. I don’t feel like listening to anything they have to say.

“So it’s not my fault you lost your free room and board,” I go on. “It’s your fault. You broke the rules of the employment contract you signed, not to mention all rules of human decency, when none of you mentioned that Jasmine Albright had been at the prince’s party, even after you found out she’d died the next morning. Clearly you knew what you’d done was wrong because you tried to cover your asses. Didn’t you?”

All of the RAs look at one another. I can see the naked panic on their faces.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t quite hear you. I said, didn’t you?”

“This isn’t fair.” Stephanie Moody is the first one to speak. “I didn’t even see Jaz at the party. And I didn’t find out she was dead until Lisa told us at that staff meeting.”

“Oh, shut up, Steph,” Christopher Mintz snaps. “You’re such a brownnoser.”

“I don’t think any of you understand,” Howard says, with mounting hysteria. “If I don’t get free room and board, I’m probably going to have to take out a student loan.”

“Howard,” I say, “well over two-thirds of students in this country will graduate this year holding a student loan of some kind, probably way more than whatever yours is going to be. I’m sure the financial aid office will be more than happy to help work something out with you. With all of you, as a matter of fact.”

“It is now nine o’clock,” Hamad, the more loquacious of the prince’s bodyguards, points out, holding up his diamond-encrusted watch. It probably cost more than the entire work-study-student budget the housing department was allotted. “May we please have our appointment, Miss Wells?”

“No,” I say. “I’m not ready yet. And even when I am, you aren’t invited to the meeting, Hamad.”

He looks furious. “Then we’re leaving.” Hamad utters a few words of Arabic to the prince.

Rashid looks as if he’s seen enough anyway and has grown bored. He stands.

This is a disaster. Where is Ameera? Maybe I should call her room to make sure she’s coming.

“Disciplinary action will ensue if you fail to attend this meeting, Rashid,” I say quickly. “It’s better if you stay and talk to me.”

“You’re not even the one in charge here,” Hamad says, with a sneer. “It’s the Oriental lady. Where is she?”

“Asian,” I say. “Lisa’s Asian-American. Rugs are Oriental, not people. And she isn’t here right now.”

“But my parents,” Howard is saying. I notice he’s wearing his Harvard hoodie again, like a reminder of his alleged failure. “They’re going to kill me.”

“My parents are going to kill Phillip Allington,” Jasmine Tsai declares. “They’re on their way into the city right now to demand a meeting with him over our unfair treatment. We’re not going down without a fight.”

“I noticed,” Sarah says drily. “Which one of you leaked the president’s letter to the Express? Because that was superclassy. By which I mean not classy at all.”

The RAs raise their voices in unanimous protest. Rashid, looking disgusted, turns to leave . . . then freezes. I soon see why. A familiar (if somewhat ghostly pale, though still very beautiful) face has appeared in the doorway.

It’s Ameera, fashionably late for her nine o’clock meeting with me.

She looks frightened. Well, the wording in my letter had been strong. And, of course, the RAs are being extremely loud. One thing about RAs is that they don’t have problems expressing their feelings.