Size 12 Is Not Fat (Heather Wells 1)

“Sarah?” I say. I push the door open all the way. No sign of Rachel. The exterior office is empty. Sarah—and the body—have to be in Rachel’s office. “Sarah? Are you there?”

“In here,” I hear Sarah’s voice warble.

I glance at the grate. There’s nothing tied around it. Sarah must have cut her down. Horrific as it had to have been to find her like that, she still shouldn’t have messed with the body. That’s tampering with evidence. Or something.

“Sarah,” I say, hurrying through to Rachel’s office, “I told you not to…”

My voice trails off. That’s because I’m not greeted by the sight of a weeping Sarah cradling Rachel’s lifeless form. Instead, I’m greeted by the sight of a perfectly healthy Rachel—wearing a new, very attractive cashmere sweater set and charcoal trousers—leaning against her desk, one booted foot balanced on her office chair…

…onto which she’s tied Sarah with the phone cord and some computer cables.

“Oh, hi, Heather,” Rachel says brightly. “You got here fast.”

“Heather.” Sarah is sobbing so hard now that her glasses have steamed up. “I’m so sorry. She made me call you—”

“Shut up.” Rachel, annoyed, slaps Sarah, hard, across the face. The sound of the smack makes me jump.

It also wakes me up.

Trap. I’ve just walked into a trap. Automatically I turn towards the door—

“Stop or I’ll kill her.” Rachel’s voice rings coldly through the room. Even Monet’s water lilies couldn’t soften it.

I freeze where I am. Rachel brushes past me and goes to the outer office door, pulling it all the way closed.

“There,” she says, when the lock clicks into place. “That’s more like it. Now we can have some privacy.”

I stare at her, my grip tightening on the strap of my backpack, despite my stitches. Maybe, I think, I can hit her with it. My backpack, I mean. Although there isn’t anything heavy in it. Just a hairbrush, my wallet, and some lipstick. Oh, and a Kit Kat bar, in case I get hungry later.

How had she known? How had she known we were on to her?

“Rachel,” I say. My voice sounds funny. I realize it’s because my throat has gone dry. I’m not feeling very good, all of a sudden. My fingers have gone ice cold, and the cuts on them ache.

Then I remember.

There’s a canister of pepper spray in my backpack. It’s several years old and the nozzle is all gunked up with sand from a trip to the beach. Will it still work?

Play it cool, I tell myself. What would Cooper do if he was faced with a killer? He’d play it cool.

“Wow,” I say, hoping I sound cool, like Cooper. “What’s this all about, Rachel? Is this some kind of trust game, or something? Because, if you don’t mind me saying so, Sarah doesn’t look like she’s having a very good time.”

“Cut the crap, Heather.” Rachel speaks in a hard voice I’ve never heard her use before, not even with the basketball players. The sound of it makes me feel colder than ever. I’ve never heard her swear before, either. “That dumb blond act might work with everyone else you know, but it’s never worked with me. I know exactly what you are, and believe me, the four-letter word I’d use to describe you is not dumb.” Her eyes flick over me disparagingly. “At least until recently it wasn’t.”

Is she ever right. I can’t believe I’d fallen for that phone call. Still, Sarah’s tears had been real…just not for the reason she’d said they were.

“You might as well know,” Rachel says calmly. “I know all about last night.”

I try pretending like I don’t know what she’s talking about, even though I do.

“Last night? Rachel, I—”

“Last night,” she says pleasantly. “Your little jaunt to the Hamptons. Don’t try to deny it. I was there. I saw you.”

“You…you were there?”

I’m at a total loss as to how to proceed. Every nerve in my body is screaming, Turn around and run!

But somehow I’m rooted to the spot, my fingers clenched around my backpack strap. I keep thinking about Sarah. What if I run? What will Rachel do to poor Sarah?

“Of course I was,” Rachel says, her voice dripping with scorn. “You think I don’t keep an eye on my property? Why do you think I held on to my Jetta? Nobody needs a car in this city…unless they’re going to be following people to the Hamptons.”

God. I’d forgotten all about her stupid car, which she parks in a garage on the West Side Highway.

I say, keeping my voice low-pitched so Rachel can’t hear how badly it’s shaking, “Okay. So I was there. So I know about you and Chris. So what? Rachel, I’m on your side. I totally understand where you’re coming from. I’ve been dicked over by guys before, too. Why don’t we talk about this—”

Rachel is shaking her head. Her expression is incredulous, as if I, not she, am the one cracking up.

“There’ll be no talking about this,” she says, with a bark of laughter. “The time for talking is over. And let’s get one thing straight here, Heather.” Rachel uncrosses her arms, her right hand going to a lump I hadn’t noticed before beneath her cardigan.

“I am the director,” she goes on. “I am the one in charge. I decide whether or not we’re going to talk about it, because I am the one who schedules the meeting. Like I scheduled the meetings for Elizabeth and Roberta. Like I’ll schedule yet another meeting for Amber, later. Like I’ve scheduled this meeting, now, between you and me. I am the one in charge. Do you want to know what qualifies me to be in charge, Heather?”

I nod mutely, my eyes on the lump under her sweater. A gun, I think. A gun definitely qualifies Rachel to be in charge.

But it isn’t a gun at all. When Rachel draws it out, all I see is a black plastic thing that fits snugly in her hand. There are two evil-looking metal pieces sticking out of the top, giving it an appearance not unlike the head of a cockroach. I have no idea what it is until Rachel flicks a switch with her thumb, and suddenly a thin blue electric line buzzes between the twin metal prongs.

Then I know, even before she says it.

“Heather, meet the Thunder Gun.” Rachel speaks proudly, like some of the parents had on the first day of check-in, when they’d been introducing their kid to me. “A second of contact with the one hundred and twenty thousand volts the head of the Thunder Gun delivers can cause confusion, weakness, disorientation, and loss of balance and muscle control for several minutes. And the wonderful thing is, if blasted through clothing, the Thunder Gun leaves only a very small burn mark upon the skin. It’s a fabulously effective repellent weapon, and you can order it from any number of catalogs here in the U.S. Why, mine only cost forty-nine ninety-five, nine-volt battery not included. Of course, it’s not legal to own one here in New York City, but then, who cares?”