The Bride Wore Size 12 (Heather Wells 5)

I’m not sure Mrs. Harris is right about any of her theories, but I am sure that if I can get Ameera and Rashid in the same room—my office—at the same time, I might get some kind of explanation out of them as to what’s going on, and that could (hopefully) lead to a clue as to what Jasmine saw the night she was killed, and maybe even a clue as to why she was killed and who killed her.

It’s a long shot, but so far it’s looking like the only shot I have.

Failure to attend this meeting will result in disciplinary action, I type. If you have any questions, please contact Heather Wells, Fischer Hall assistant director.

“Oh, crap.” Gavin’s voice distracts me on the phone. “That Christopher Mintz guy just got his letter. So did Joshua Dungarden. Oh, shit.” He’s snickering into the receiver. “He’s crying! He’s crying! Like a little kid!”

“Gavin,” I say severely. “Hang up the phone. But wait, before you do—” I think of my own two letters sitting on the printer. Somehow I have to get them up to the desk so they can be delivered to Ameera and Rashid’s mailboxes. Also, somehow I have to get out of the building and home, and I have to do all this without going through the lobby and running into all these crying kids. And also keep those kids from coming back here and trashing this office after I leave, something disgruntled ex-employees have been known to do.

“Can you come back here and pick up two letters I need delivered? And also have Pete turn off the alarm on the side doors so I can leave through them? And then call Carl and have him change the locks to the residence hall director’s office, and make sure to give the new keys only to Lisa, Sarah, and me?”

There’s a long pause before Gavin says, “For you, my lady, I would clip the wings of a dragon.”

I hesitate. “Does that mean you’ll call Carl, and the rest of the stuff I asked you to do?”

He heaves a gusty sigh. “Yes. That means I’ll call Carl, and the rest of the stuff you asked me to do.”

“Great! Thanks.”

I hang up, wondering how Sarah could ever have discounted Gavin as one of the decent guys. He’s definitely a little weird, but extremely decent.

After he comes back to get the letters for Ameera and Rashid, assures me Pete’s turned off the alarm on the emergency side exit that the president occasionally uses as an entrance for party guests when he entertains in the penthouse upstairs, and that Carl’s on his way to change the lock to the outside door to the office (the RAs don’t have keys to Lisa’s office, so that’s all right), I shut off the lights and slip away, just as indignant sobs can be heard floating down the hallway toward me.

I know it’s cowardly, but after such a long day, I can’t handle any more drama. I duck out the side exit, slamming the door securely closed behind me, then see, through the heavy security glass, Carl heading down the hallway toward the office with his toolbox, several of the fired RAs trailing behind him, furious expressions on their tearstained faces.

I’ve escaped in the nick of time.

Handing someone a letter of termination at the stroke of five and then fleeing the office is a pretty cowardly act, but it happens fairly often. The most common day to fire people is Friday, due to the (mistaken) belief that they’ll spend the weekend calming down, when this is not, in fact, the case. They can’t even use those two days to look for a new job, because who’s hiring on weekends?

This is why it’s better to fire people in the middle of the day, and give them lots of support, than to do it the way President Allington chose to.

But then, not everyone makes the best choices, and the choices the Fischer Hall RAs made that led to their being fired hadn’t been very good either. So maybe they and President Allington deserve each other.

Of course, I’m no better, slinking off the way I do. My shoulders sagging in relief, I turn to begin strolling down the sidewalk, enjoying the feel of the late-afternoon sun on my face and the sound of birds tweeting in the trees that line the quiet side street, happy I still have my job.

Unfortunately my calm is short-lived, since I’ve only gone a few steps before I realize I’ve come face-to-face with my nemesis from earlier in the afternoon: Hamad.

He’s holding open the door of the prince’s pure-white Escalade as Rashid prepares to step into it. Both the prince and his bodyguard are staring at me, one with utter hatred and the other in surprise.

“Miss Wells.” The prince lowers his foot from the frame of the Escalade and quickly crosses the sidewalk toward me. “Good afternoon. I’m so glad to see you. How are you? Are you well?”

Confused by his solicitousness—and wary of his bodyguard’s stony-eyed glare—I take a quick, stumbling step backward.

“I’m fine, thanks. Just heading home. Don’t want to be late for my subway, so if you’ll excuse me—”

I’m lying, of course. I live only a block away. And how can someone be late for the subway? New York City subways run constantly.

But how’s the royal prince of Qalif going to know this? Besides, I don’t want any of the newly fired RAs to see me out here on the street, and I definitely don’t want to spend any more time than I have to in the company of the extremely unpleasant, woman-hating Hamad.

Or maybe Hamad doesn’t hate all women. Maybe he only hates me.

“Please,” Rashid says. Today he’s wearing a white blazer, instead of a camo-colored one, and poppy-red skinny jeans. He must think this is what American girls find stylish, but he resembles a barber’s pole. He gestures toward his tricked-out chariot. “Let us drive you home. You must be tired after having been through so much unpleasantness. Did you receive the flowers I sent you?”

I can’t help taking yet another step away from him. My plan isn’t working.

“Yes, I got the flowers,” I say. “Thank you, they’re beautiful. But no thanks for the ride. You’re obviously on your way somewhere. I wouldn’t want you to go to any trouble.” I also don’t want him to know where I live, or that I lied about having to take the train.

“Please, it’s no trouble,” Rashid says. “A lady like you is too beautiful to ride the subway, Miss Wells. The trains in this country are filled with dirty miscreants. We insist that you allow us to escort you safely home.”

“No, really,” I say, though I enjoy hearing that I’m too beautiful to ride the subway. I have to be sure to tell this to Cooper. “I’ll be fine—”