Meg Cabot - Size 12 Is Not Fat

And the girls who’d died—they hadn’t died because they had files in Rachel’s office.

They had files in Rachel’s office because she’d singled them out to die.

“Hope you’re hungry,” Cooper says, returning to my apartment holding a big plastic I ♥ NY bag. “They messed up and gave us chickenand shrimp dansak… ” His voice trails off. “Heather?” Cooper is peering at me strangely, his blue eyes concerned. “Are you okay?”

“Earlcrest,” I manage to grunt.

Cooper puts the bag on the kitchen table and stares down at me.

“Yeah,” he says. “That’s what I thought you said. What about it?”

“Where is it?”

Cooper bends over to refer to his computer screen. “Uh, I don’t—oh, Indiana. Richmond, Indiana.”

I shake my head, so hard the towel slips from it, and my damp hair falls down over my shoulders. No. NO WAY.

“Oh my God,” I breathe. “Oh my God.”

Cooper is staring at me like I’ve lost my mind. And you know what? I think I have. Lost my mind, I mean. Because how could I not have seen it before now, even though it had been staring me right in the face….

“Rachel worked there,” I manage to rasp. “Rachel worked at a dorm in Richmond, Indiana, before she moved here.”

Cooper, who’d been pulling white paper containers from the I ♥ NY bag, pauses. “What are you talking about?”

“Richmond, Indiana,” I repeat. My heart is thumping so hard that I can see the lapel of my terry-cloth robe leaping over my breast with every beat. “The last place Rachel worked was in Richmond, Indiana… ”

Comprehension dawns across Cooper’s face.

“Rachel worked at Earlcrest? You think… you think Rachel’s the one who killed those girls?” He shakes his head. “Why? You think she was that desperate to win a Pansy Award?”

“No.” No way is Rachel going around pushing people down the elevator shafts of Fischer Hall in order to get herself a Pansy, or even a promotion.

Because it isn’t a promotion Rachel is after.

It’s a man.

A heterosexual man, worth more than a hundred thousand dollars a year, if you count the trust fund he’s supposed to have.

Christopher Allington. Christopher Allington is that man.

“Heather,” Cooper says. “Heather? Look. I’m sorry. But there’s no way. Rachel Walcott is not a killer.”

I suck in my breath.

“How do you know?” I ask. “I mean, why not? Why not her, as opposed to someone else? Because she’s a woman? Because she’s pretty?”

“Because it’s crazy,” Cooper says. “Come on, it’s been a long day. Maybe you should get some rest.”

“I am not tired,” I say. “Think about it, Cooper. I mean,really think about it. Elizabeth and Roberta met with Rachel before they died—I bet the stuff in their files, the stuff about their moms calling, isn’t even true. I bet their mothers never called. And now Amber… ”

“There are seven hundred residents of Fischer Hall,” Cooper points out. “Are all the ones who had meetings with Rachel Walcott dead?”

“No, just the ones who also had relationships with Christopher Allington.”

Cooper shakes his head.

“Heather, try to look at this logically. How could Rachel Walcott have the physical strength to throw a full-grown, struggling young woman down an elevator shaft? Rachel can’t weigh more than a hundred and twenty pounds herself. It’s just not possible, Heather.”

“I don’t know how she’s doing it, Cooper. But I do know that it’s a bit of a coincidence that both Rachel and Chris were at Earlcrest last year, and now they’re both here at New York College. I would bet cash money that Rachel followed Christopher Allington—and his parents—here.”

When he continues to look hesitant, I stand up, push back my chair, and say, “There’s only one way we’ll ever know for sure.”

26

What’d I do

To get you so mad?

What’d I say

That’s got you feeling so bad?

I never meant it

I swear it’s not true

The only guy I care about

Has always been you.

Oh, don’t go away mad.

Come on over, let me

Make you feel glad

“Apology Song”

Performed by Heather Wells

Composed by Caputo/Valdez

From the album Summer

Cartwright Records

Not surprisingly, Cooper balks at the idea of driving all the way to the Hamptons at seven o’clock on a weeknight just to have a word with a man the police themselves won’t even haul in for questioning.

When I remind him that Chris is more likely to talk to either of us than the police, Cooper is still not convinced. He insists that after the injuries I’d sustained that morning, what I need is a good night’s sleep, not a six-hour drive to East Hampton and back.

When I remind him that it is our duty as good citizens to do whatever we can to see that this woman is put behind bars before she kills again, Cooper assures me that he’ll call Detective Canavan in the morning and tell him my theory.

“But by morning Amber might be dead!” I cry. I know she’s not dead yet, because I’ve just called her room and learned, from her roommate, that she is watching a movie in another resident’s room down the hall.

“If the residence hall director requests a meeting with her,” I’d said, semi-hysterically, to Amber’s roommate, “tell Amber she is NOT to go to it. Do you understand?”

“Um,” the roommate said. “Okay.”

“I mean it,” I’d cried, before Cooper could pry the phone from my hand. “Tell Amber that the assistant director of Fischer Hall says that if the residence hall director requests another meeting with her, she is not to go. Or even open her door to her. Do you understand me? Do you understand that you will be in very big trouble with the assistant director of Fischer Hall if you do not deliver this message?”

“Uh,” the roommate said. “Yeah. I’ll give her the message.”

Which is probably not the most subtle way to have gotten my point across. But at least I know Amber is safe.

For the time being.

“We’ve got to go, Cooper!” I urge him, as soon as I’ve put the phone down. “I’ve got to know, now!”

“Heather,” Cooper says, looking frustrated. “I swear to God, of all the people I’ve ever met, you have got to be the most—”

I suck in my breath. He’s going to say it! Whatever it was he’d been about to say in my office! He’s going to say it now!

Except that back then—in my office, I mean—it had sounded like what he’d been about to say was complimentary. Judging from the way his jaw is clenched now, though, I don’t think he’s about to say something nice about me. In fact, I’m pretty sure I don’t want to hear his next words.

Because, truthfully, the thing with Rachel is more important.

Which is why I say, “This is stupid. You know, there are trains to the Hamptons. I’ll just go look up the schedule online and—”

I don’t know if he gave in because he realized it was the only way to shut me up, or if he was genuinely concerned that I might do myself harm on the LIRR. Maybe he was just trying to placate the crazy injured girl.

In any case, in the time it takes me to get dressed, Cooper has retrieved his car—a ’74 BMW 2002, a vehicle that invariably causes the drug dealers on my street to hoot tauntingly, because, in their opinion, the only good BMW is a new one—from its parking garage. He isn’t happy about it, or anything. In fact, I’m pretty sure he was cursing whatever impulse had prompted him to ask me to move in with him in the first place.

And I feel bad about it. I really do.

But not enough to tell him to forget the whole thing. Because, you know, a girl’s life is at stake.

It’s easy to find the Allingtons’ weekend place. I mean, they’re in the East Hampton phone book. If they didn’t want people to drop in, they’d have had an unlisted number, right?

And okay, there’s this big wrought-iron gate at the end of their driveway, with a built-in intercom and everything, that might lead the average person to believe visitors were unwelcome.

But I for one didn’t fall for it. I hop out of the car and go to press on the buzzer. And even when no one answers, I’m not discouraged. Well, very much.

“Heather,” Cooper says, from the driver’s window of his car, which he’s rolled down. “I don’t think anybody’s going to—”

But then the intercom crackles, and a voice that is unmistakably Chris’s says,“What?”

I can understand why he’s so testy. I’d sort of been leaning on the buzzer, knowing that eventually the person inside would be driven insane and have to answer. It’s a trick I’d picked up from the reporters who used to stake out the place Jordan and I had shared.

“Um, hi, Chris,” I say into the intercom. “It’s me.”

“Me who?” Chris demands, still sounding annoyed.

“You know,” I say, trying to sound girlishly flirtatious. “Let me in.”

Then I add the three little words I’d learned from Justine’s files that few students—and that’s what Chris is, after all—can resist: “I brought pizza.”

There’s a pause. Then the gate slowly starts to open.

I hurry back to the car, where Cooper is sitting, looking—even if I do say so myself—vaguely impressed.

“Pizza,” he echoes. “I’ll have to remember that one.”

“Works every time,” I say. I don’t mention how I knew. I’m kind of sick of Justine, to tell the truth.

We pull into the circular driveway, and Villa d’Allington, in all its white stucco glory, looms ahead of us.

I’ve been to the Hamptons before, of course. The Cartwrights have a house there, right on the water, surrounded on three sides by a federally protected bird sanctuary, so no else can build there, and ruin the view.

I’ve been to other people’s homes there as well—houses that were considered architectural marvels and once even a chateau that had been transported, brick by brick, from the south of France. Seriously.

But I’ve never seen anything quite like the Allingtons’ house. Not in the Hamptons, anyway. Stark white and massive, filled with airy, Mediterranean archways and bright, flowering plants, the place is lit up as brightly as Rockefeller Center.

Only instead of a great big gold guy looming over a skating rink, there’s a great big white house looming over a swimming pool.

“How about,” Cooper says, as we get out of the car, “you let me do the talking for a change.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “You aren’t going to hit him, are you?”

“Why would I do that?” Cooper asks, sounding surprised.

“Don’t you hit people? I mean, in your line of work?”

“Can’t remember the last time I did,” Cooper says, mildly.

A little bit disappointed, I say, “Well, I think Christopher Allington’s the type of guy you’d like to hit. If you hit people.”

“He is,” Cooper agrees, with a faint smile. “But I won’t. At least, not right away.”