I’m not really sure what I’m going to say if any of them say yes. I guess I can’t come right out and be all “So… did you shove her down the elevator shaft?” But I figure I will deal with that when the time comes.

I am just settling down in front of the roster with a glass of wine and some biscotti I found in the cupboard when the doorbell rings.

And I remember, with an almost physical jolt, that I volunteered to babysit for Patty’s kid tonight.

Patty takes one look at me after I open the door and knows. She goes, “What happened?”

“Nothing,” I assure her, taking Indy from her arms. “Well, I mean, something, but nothing happened to me. Another girl died today. That’s all.”

“Another one?” Frank, Patty’s husband, looks delighted. There’s something about violent death that makes some people very excited. Frank is evidently one of them. “How’d she do it? OD?”

“She fell off the top of one of the elevators,” I say, as Patty elbows Frank, hard enough to make him gounngh. “Or at least, that’s as close as we can figure out. And it’s okay. Really. I’m all right.”

“You be nice to her,” Patty says to her husband. “She’s had a bad day.”

Patty has a tendency to get fussy when she’s going out. She isn’t comfortable in evening clothes—maybe because she still hasn’t lost all of the baby weight yet. For a while, Patty and I tried going power walking through SoHo in the evenings, as part of our efforts to do our government-suggested sixty minutes of exercise per day.

But Patty couldn’t seem to pass by a shop window without stopping, then asking, “Do you think those shoes would look good on me?” then going inside and buying them.

And I couldn’t pass a bakery without going in and buying a baguette.

So we had to stop walking, because Patty’s closets are full enough as it is, and who needs that much bread?

Besides, Patty has nowhere to wear all her new stuff. She’s basically a homebody at heart, which, for a rock star’s wife, is not a good thing.

And Frank Robillard is a rock star with a capital S. He makes Jordan look like Yanni. Patty met him when they were both doing Letterman—he was singing, she was one of those showgirls who stands around holding the cold cuts party platter—and it was love at first sight. You know, the kind you read about, but that never happens to you. That kind.

“Cut it out, Frank,” Patty says to her one true love. “We’re going to be late.”

But Frank is prowling around the office, looking at Cooper’s stuff.

“He shot anybody yet?” he asks, meaning Cooper.

“If he had, he wouldn’t tell me,” I say.

Since I’ve moved in with Cooper, my stock has gone way up with Frank. He never liked Jordan, but Cooper is his hero. He’d even gone out and bought a leather jacket just like Cooper’s—used, so it’s already broken in. Frank doesn’t understand that being a private investigator in real life isn’t like how it is on TV. I mean, Cooper doesn’t even own a gun. All you need to do Cooper’s job is a camera and an ability to blend with your environment.

Cooper’s surprisingly good, it turns out, at blending.

“So, you two going out yet?” Frank asks, out of the blue. “You and Cooper?”

“Frank!” Patty screams.

“No, Frank,” I say, for what has to be the three hundredth time this month alone.

“Frank,” Patty says. “Cooper and Heather are roommates. You can’t go out with your roommate. You know how that is. I mean, all the romance is gone once you’ve seen someone in their bathrobe. Right, Heather?”

I blink at her. I have never thought of this. What if Patty is right? Cooper is never going to think of me as date-worthy—even if I win a Nobel Prize in medicine. Because he’s seen me too many times in sweat pants! With no makeup!

Patty and Frank say their good-byes, then Indy and I stand and wave to them as they go down my front steps and climb back into their waiting limo. The drug dealers on my street watch from a respectful distance. They all worship Frank’s band. I am convinced that the reason Cooper’s house is never graffitied or robbed is because everyone in the neighborhood knows that we’re friends with the voice of the people, Frank Robillard, and so the place is off-limits.

Or maybe it’s because of the alarm and the bars on all the ground and first floor windows. Who knows?

Indy and I spend a pleasant evening watching Forensic Files and The New Detectives on the TV in my bedroom, where I’m able to keep an eye on both my best friend’s child and the back of Fischer Hall. Looking up at the tall brick building, with so many of its lights ablaze, I can’t help remembering what Magda had said—her joke about Elizabeth and Roberta ending it all over discovering that sex isn’t all it was cracked up to be. Bobby had been a virgin… at least according to her roommate. And it seemed likely that Elizabeth Kellogg had been one as well.

Is that it? Is that the link between the two girls? Is someone killing the virgins of Fischer Hall?

Or have I seen one too many episodes of CSI?

When Patty and Frank arrive to pick up their progeny just after midnight, I hand him over at the front door. He’d passed out during Crossing Jordan.

“How was he?” Patty asks.

“Perfect, as always,” I say.

“For you, maybe,” she says with a snort as she shifts the sleeping baby in her arms. Frank is waiting in the limo below. “You’re so good with him. You should have one of your own someday.”

“Twist the knife, why don’t you,” I say.

“I’m sorry,” Patty says. “I love having you sit for us, but you do realize you’ve never once said you couldn’t because you were busy? Heather, you’ve got to get back out there. Not just with your music, either. You’ve got to try to meet someone.”

“I meet plenty of people,” I say defensively.

“I mean someone who isn’t a freshman at New York College.”

“Yeah,” I say. “Well, it’s easy for you to criticize. You’ve got the perfect husband. You don’t know what it’s like in real life. You think Jordan was an anomaly? Patty, he’s the norm.”

“That isn’t true,” Patty says. “You’ll find someone. You just can’t be afraid to take a risk.”

What is she talking about? I do nothing but take risks. I’m trying to keep a psychopath from killing again. Isn’t that enough? I have to have a ring on my finger, too?

Some people are never satisfied.

No matter how much I try to shake it, the thought stays with me all weekend. The Virgins of Fischer Hall.

I know it sounds insane. But I just kept thinking about it.

Maybe Patty’s right, and the kids in the dorm—residence hall, I mean—are taking up the space in my heart where love for my own kids would be if, you know, I had any. Because I can’t stop worrying about them.

Not that there can be that many more virgins left in the building—which I happen to be in a position to know. Ever since I swapped the Hershey’s Kisses in the candy jar on my desk for individually wrapped Trojans, I’ve had kids stumbling down to my office at nine in the morning in their PJs—and if you don’t think nine in the morning is early by college standards, you’ve never been in college—unapologetically plucking them from the jar.

No embarrassment. No apologies. In fact, when I run out of Trojans, and the jar remains empty for a day or so until I get more from Health Services, let me tell you, I hear about it. The kids start in on me right away: “Hey! Where are the condoms? Are you out of condoms? What am I supposed to do now?”