The Bride Wore Size 12 (Heather Wells 5)

“No worries.” Cameron shakes his head in disbelief as he turns back to his keyboard. “Heather, do you even realize how huge this is? Not only is a girl dead, and a bunch of RAs are getting fired, but it all happened because of a party being given by the heir to the throne of Qalif, whose father donated five hundred million dollars to New York College. This story could get picked up by the print media.” His tone has turned reverential. “It could make CNN.”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” I remark drily. “You know what I would do if I were you? Not that I’m telling you how to do your job.”

He shakes his head again, this time in answer to my question. “No, what?”

“I’d try to get in touch with ResLifeGirl. Maybe she could tell you more about what happened at that party.”

“Hey,” he says, nodding. “That’s a good idea.”

So he hasn’t yet figured out that ResLifeGirl was Jasmine.

“Also, you should ask the facilities office of this building for a live trap,” I say as I open the office door. “Then you can catch Algernon and let him go out in the park. I know it’s nice to have a friend in real life and everything,” I add, “but he’ll be happier there, and then you’ll have a slimmer chance of catching the hantavirus, which is spread by mouse droppings. It can make people really sick. People even die from it.”

Cam looks up from his keyboard.

“Is that what killed Jasmine Albright?” he asks excitedly. “Hantavirus? I know Death Dorm—I mean Fischer Hall—is an old building. Are you stating there’s a mouse infestation in it, causing people to die? Because that would make insanely good copy.”

I roll my eyes. “No, Cam,” I say. “And if I were saying that, I wouldn’t be stating anything, remember? Because this is all coming from an ‘inside source.’ ”

“Right, right,” he says, putting his earbuds back in. “Don’t worry, I got you covered. No names.” Then he begins typing away, lost in his cyberlife.

I pull the door closed behind me on my way out, deciding that maybe it’s better Cameron keeps Algernon around after all. He seems to need the company, even if the company is only a baby rat.

18

There’s the dress mess

There’s the veil travail

There’s the guest guess

Might as well as bail

“The Whole Shebang,”

written by Heather Wells

You did what?” Cooper’s voice cracks on the word “what.”

“Well, I knew the leak wasn’t Sarah, but how else was I going to prove it to everyone in the president’s office?”

I’m walking swiftly across the park toward Fischer Hall, anxious to get back to work, my cell phone pressed to my ear. I’m late for Lisa’s interview with the new RA candidate. Not that she needs my help, necessarily, but she wasn’t in the best condition when I last saw her.

“It’s not your job to prove Sarah isn’t the leak,” Cooper says. “Sarah’s a big girl. She can take care of herself.”

“Of course she can. But they already fired more than half the staff,” I say. “I couldn’t let Sarah be next. I had to find out who the leak really was. I figured if I offered to swap intel with the editor of the Express—”

“Swap intel with the editor of the Express?” Cooper interrupts, sounding weirdly echo-y, as if he’s in a tunnel or something. But I can still hear the incredulity in his voice. “Heather, are you listening to yourself?”

“Whatever, it worked. And now we know the reason Jasmine was killed was because she had information that someone didn’t want her spreading, probably on her phone that you kept pointing out was missing.”

“We know no such thing,” Cooper says. “And don’t sound so proud of yourself, because if it is true, you just put yourself—not to mention the staff of the Express—in serious danger.”

“Aw,” I say, my ponytail swinging behind me as I hurry through the crowded park. “Are you worried about me? That’s so sweet. I know I should be offended, because I’m a feminist, and the whole overprotective boyfriend thing is so Twilight, but whatever, I love it, keep it coming.”

“Heather, I’m not joking.” He sounds irritated. “Whatever it was Jasmine found out, recorded on her phone, and was apparently ready to Tweet to the world was worth killing her for. And that means it will be worth killing whoever uncovers the truth about it.”

“But I didn’t tell the Express about it. How could I? I don’t know what it is that Jasmine found out. Whoever killed her did it before she got a chance to spill the beans. They have no idea we know Jasmine’s the leak, or even that there was anything to leak. So why would I, or anyone who works for the Express, be in danger?”

“Because we’re not talking about a girl killed in a lovers’ quarrel. We’re talking about a young woman who was murdered because of something to do with the heir to the throne of one of the richest countries in the world. Are you sure no one you know saw you come out of the student center? There’s no one following you?”

“No one even follows the drag queen version of me on Twitter.” I oblige him, however, by looking around. It’s still a gorgeous day. The sun is brightly shining, and I’ve had to lower my sunglasses to protect my eyes from the glare. “Why would anyone bother to follow me in real life?”

My voice dries up in my throat as I see one of Prince Rashid’s bodyguards—the one he calls Hamad—strolling along, eating a soft pretzel he evidently purchased from a street vendor, not five yards behind me. Like me, he’s wearing sunglasses, but it’s unmistakably him. No one else in the park is wearing a dark business suit with a matching dark shirt, tie, and earpiece.

“Heather?” Cooper asks. “Can you hear me?”

His voice startles me. I jump and turn quickly back around, hoping Hamad hasn’t noticed that I’ve seen him.

“Yes,” I say. “Sorry. Bad connection.” No way am I telling him that he’s right, and I am being followed . . . if that’s actually what’s happening. Maybe Hamad simply enjoys New York street vendor pretzels and ran out for a quick snack on his break from bodyguard duties. Pretzels are delicious, after all. “Where are you, anyway? You’re not tailing my mother, are you?”