The Bride Wore Size 12 (Heather Wells 5)

“Ow!” Howard screams, waving his smoking hand in the air. “Ow! Why did you do that? That really hurt!”

I lower the gun, my hands shaking uncontrollably.

Howard doesn’t know how lucky he is. I was aiming for the center of his head, the largest part of his body not covered by part of Kaileigh’s. It was a perfect target.

Thank God I missed.

The next thing I know, SWAT officers from the Sixth Precinct are swarming the Fischer Hall cafeteria screaming, “Freeze! NYPD! Everyone down on the floor!”

Both Howard and I are pressed to the floor by police officers dressed all in Kevlar and holding assault rifles. Howard is quickly arrested and taken away. Mr. and Mrs. Harris fall upon Kaileigh, who is shaken up but unhurt, except for a superficial cut on her neck. They shower her with kisses and promises that they will never, ever leave her side again.

It’s not until much later, as I’m sitting at a table in the cafeteria—where I’ve been commanded to stay by the unit supervisor—picking pieces of honeydew out of my hair, that Detective Canavan saunters over and sits down beside me.

He has a mug of steaming coffee for himself in one hand and another mug piled high with whipped cream in the other. He slides the mug piled high with whipped cream toward me.

“So, Wells,” he says. “What’s this I hear about you shooting the perp in the hand with an unregistered and unlicensed target pistol?”

“It’s not true.” Magda is sitting beside me, helping to pick pieces of melon from my hair, one of the unfortunate consequences of having been forced to lie on the cafeteria floor for so long. “I didn’t see a gun. And no one can find a gun. So, there is no gun. Is there, Heather?”

“It’s not true,” I say, taking a sip from the mug Canavan has slid my way. It’s coffee mixed with a generous portion of hot cocoa. In fact, it would be more accurate to call it hot cocoa with a splash of coffee. How did he remember? “What would a girl like me be doing with a gun, anyway? Hey—” I jerk the mug away from my lips. “Is there alcohol in this?”

Canavan shrugs. “There might be a little whiskey. In my personal experience, it’s the only thing that works on the shakes.”

I glance down at my fingers, which are still trembling. I quickly pull both my hands beneath the table.

“I didn’t think anyone had noticed,” I murmur, staring down at the whipped cream floating on the top of my drink.

“No one has, I don’t think,” Canavan says. “Takes someone who’s been in your same shoes to see it.” He doesn’t mention the details—who he shot when he was in my shoes, or how it turned out. He doesn’t have to. “The boy’ll be all right—fit enough to stand trial, anyway, for murdering the first girl and attempting to murder the reporter and the other girl, today. He won’t lose the hand either.”

“That’s good,” I murmur, remembering Howard’s scream as the bullet entered his skin. Why did you do that? That really hurt!

Canavan curls a lip, amused by my expression. “You really need to toughen up a little, Wells, if you’re serious about getting a degree in criminology. All these mutts have a sob story about why they did the things they did, and a lot of them are pretty good. Hit you right here.” He points to his heart. “On the other hand, there are millions of other people out there in the world with stories that are equally heartbreaking, and guess what? They didn’t solve their problems by sticking their hands over a girl’s face to suffocate her, or by trying to choke some other guy to death with his earbuds. So don’t let ’em get to you. Now. Where’s the gun?”

I raise my eyes, widening them innocently the way Howard had. “Gun? I don’t know what you’re talking about, Detective.”

“Cut the crap, Wells. Someone shot that kid. To get off a shot like that, and without injuring a hair on that girl’s head, would take a pretty decent marksman.”

“Or markswoman,” I point out. “Women are actually thought to be better shots than men, overall, because they have lighter grips and lower centers of gravity, and so a firmer stance.”

Canavan stares at me with something akin to horror. “Who the hell told you that?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” I say. “I read it on the Internet. Why, is it not true?”

“Not in my experience,” he says. “My wife and daughters won’t go anywhere near the range, and God knows I’ve been trying to get them to for the past twenty years.”

“Lack of interest,” I say, “and lack of skill are two entirely different things.”

“Did you shoot the damned kid or not, Wells? Hostage says you did.”

I’ve long since disposed of the evidence. It’s amazing what a girl can do if she’s resourceful enough, has worked in the same building long enough, and knows enough people in the right places. Oh, and is getting married in a month, and leaving for her honeymoon in Venice, and doesn’t want to deal with the hassle of an unlawful-use or possession-of-firearm charge that might keep her from traveling outside the country.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Detective,” I say sweetly.

“Neither do I,” Magda says. “I was there, and I saw the whole thing. I don’t know where the shot came from. Somewhere over there, maybe.” She points in the direction of the snack-cake rack. “Oh, he’s gone. Well, it could have been him. You know, that little girl was hysterical. Who knows what she saw?”

She finds another piece of melon in my hair and drops it onto the table.

Detective Canavan looks dissatisfied. “Right,” he says. “Why don’t I believe you two?”

I shrug. “This job has hardened you,” I say. “You really should think about retiring. Maybe let a younger detective take over for you. Maybe even me, someday.”

“God help this city if that ever happens,” Canavan mutters. He scoots his chair from the table and says, as he leaves, “Use bar soap and water on your hands, none of that antibacterial stuff. That’s the best way to remove gunpowder residue. And for God’s sake, go home to that boyfriend of yours. And finish that.” He points at the mug in front of me. “That’s an order.”

“She can’t go home,” Magda says matter-of-factly as she begins to braid my hair. I’m afraid to look at what she’s styling it into. “She has her final fitting for her wedding gown. It’s in half an hour.”