“Sarah?” I say. “Is that you?”
“Y-yes.” Sarah sniffles.
“Are you okay?” I sit up in bed. “Sarah, what’s the matter?”
“It’s… it’s Rachel,” Sarah say.
Whoa. Had the cops gotten there and arrested her already? It’s going to be a blow, I know, for the building staff, what with Justine turning out to be a ceramic heater thief, and now Rachel turning out to be a homicidal maniac.
But they’ll get over it. Maybe I’ll bring in Krispy Kremes for everyone tomorrow.
“Yeah?” I say. Because I don’t want to let on that I’d had anything to do with the arrest. Yet, anyway. “What about Rachel?”
“She… she’s dead.”
I nearly drop the phone.
“What?” I cry. “Rachel? Dead? What—”
I can’t believe it. It isn’t possible. Rachel? Dead? How on earth…
“I think she killed herself,” Sarah says with a sob. “Heather, I just came into the office, and she’s… she’s hanging here. From that grate between our office and hers.”
Oh my God.
Rachel’s hanged herself. Rachel realized that the jig was up, but instead of going quietly, she killed herself. Oh my God.
I have to remain calm. For the building’s sake, I realize. I have to be the one in charge now. The director is gone. That leaves me, the assistant director. I’m going to have to be the strong one. I’m going to have to be everybody’s beacon of light in the dark times ahead.
And it’s okay, because I’m totally prepared. It won’t be any different, really, than if Rachel had been hauled off to jail. She’s really just going to a different place. But she’s gone, just the same.
“I don’t know what to do,” Sarah says, her voice rising to a hysterical pitch. “If anyone walks in and sees this—”
“Don’t let anyone in,” I cry. Oh God. The RAs. This is the last thing they need. “Sarah, don’t let anyone come in. And don’t touch anything.” Isn’t that right? Isn’t that what they always say on Law & Order? “Call an ambulance. Call the police. Right away. Don’t let anyone into the office but the police. Okay, Sarah?”
“Okay,” Sarah says, with another sniffle. “But, Heather?”
“Yeah?”
“Can you come over? I’m… I’m so scared.”
But I’ve already sprung from my bed and am reaching for my jeans.
“I’ll be right there,” I tell her. “Hold on, Sarah. I’ll be right there.”
29
There’s a place called home
Or so I’m told
I’ve never been there
So I wouldn’t know.
There’s a place called home
Where they’re always glad to see you
Where they want you just to be you
This place called home
But I wouldn’t know
’Cause I’ve never had one
I wouldn’t know
Heather Wells, “Place Called Home”
It’s my fault.
Rachel’s death, I mean.
I should have known. I should have known this would happen. I mean, clearly she wasn’t mentally stable. Of course at the slightest provocation, she was going to snap. I don’t know how she figured it out—that we suspected her—but she had.
And she’d taken the only way out she felt she could.
Well, there’s nothing I can do about it now. Nothing except be there for the people Rachel’s death is likely to affect the most—the building staff.
I call Cooper on his cell. He doesn’t pick up, so I leave a message, telling him what Sarah has told me. I ask him to let Detective Canavan know. And then I tell him to come to Fischer Hall as soon as he gets my message.
I can’t find an umbrella, of course. I can never find an umbrella when I really need one. Ducking my head against the steady drizzle, I hurry over to Washington Square West, marveling at how quickly the drug dealers disappear in inclement weather, and wondering where they all go. The Washington Square Diner? I’d have to check it out one day. Supposedly they have a killer chicken-fried steak.
I reach Fischer Hall and hurry inside, flicking rainwater from my hair, and smiling a little queasily at Pete. Does he know yet? Does he have any idea?
“Heather,” he cries. “What’re you doin’ here? After what you went through yesterday, I thought they’d give you a month off. You’re not working, are you?”
“No,” I say. He doesn’t know. Oh my God, he doesn’t know.
And I can’t tell him. Because the desk attendant is sitting right there, watching us.
“Oh,” Pete says. “And hey, Julio’s doing good, by the way. They’re letting him out in a few days.”
“Great,” I say, with as much enthusiasm as I can. “Well, see you later.”
“See you.”
I hurry down the hallway to the director’s office door. To my surprise, it’s partly open, even though I’d specifically told Sarah to close it. Anyone can walk in and see Rachel hanging there… unless maybe she’s done it on her side of the grate. Yes, that would make more sense, actually. Her desk is pushed up against the wall beneath the grate, so it would have been easy for her to climb up there, then jump…
“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.”