His eyes suddenly went wide, drawing my attention to them, breaking the spittle spell.

“You’re not cutting anybody,” Tiffany said. She was behind me. I turned and saw she sat on the ground, holding a small silver pistol in both hands. She was staring right at jacket guy. “Unless you want me to blow your balls off, asshole.”

“Put the gun down,” jacket guy said.

“Are you insane, douchebag?” Tiffany sneered. “I’m going to give you to the count of three to run away.” Tiffany slurred her words, obviously drunk, but she held the pistol surprisingly steady. “One…”

Jacket guy smiled like a cobra, “You’re not going to shoot.”

“Two…”

He took a confident step toward Tiffany, “You’re too drunk. You’ll miss me by a mile.”

“I’ve been taking shooting lessons since I was ten years old, you prick,” she chuckled. “Which ball do you want to keep, the right or the left? Ah, fuck it, I’m going to see if I can get both with one bullet.” She cocked the gun like they always did in the movies.

Cha-CHAK!

“Three…” Tiffany said.

Jacket guy ran away so fast, he was a blur.

I gulped, and felt my heart slide back down my throat.

“Asshole,” Tiffany said as she lowered the gun.

I knelt next to her, my legs quivering like jelly. I couldn’t stand up if I wanted to. My stomach was on spin cycle. “Are you okay?”

Tiffany took a good look at me. After a moment, recognition dawned on her face, which soured when she realized it was me. “I’m fine.” She carefully eased the hammer thing on the back of the gun. I knew that meant it wasn’t about to go off anymore. She slid the gun in her purse with a loud huff. She tried to stand up, but was having trouble.

“Do you need help?” I asked, hands resting on my thighs

“No,” she blurted.

I watched her struggle to all fours, but that was as far as she was getting. “Here,” I said, and looped my arms around her arms and stood her up.

Tiffany leaned against me.

Adrenalin still flickered in my veins. My hands shook, my knees wobbled, shit, even my hair was tingling. I was surprised I could stand, let alone hold her up too.

“Which way is your car?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” she slurred, totally frustrated, like I was annoying her.

“Oh my god! Sam!” Romeo squeaked behind me. “What the hell happened?”

I turned Tiffany and myself around to face him.

“What the hells bells?” Romeo gawked. “Are you and Tiffany scissor sisters?”

“Yes, Romeo,” I said sarcastically. “We were just about to flick each other’s beans for awhile before locking crotches.”

“Can I watch?” he asked innocently.

I frowned. “I thought you were gay?”

“But this is a historic event,” he said, “and someone is going to have to document it. You’ll need proof. Otherwise, no one will ever believe it.” He pulled out his cell phone. “I’m totally taking a picture of you two.”

“Can I shoot him?” Tiffany asked.

“Please,” I giggled. It only took about three seconds for my giggles to turn into tears of relief.

SAMANTHA

Two of my fingernails still hadn’t grown completely back after I’d ripped them down to the quick the night I’d saved Tiffany. They had throbbed like crazy for days.

But now, they were a minor nuisance.

I sat in a row of chairs in a hallway on the second floor of the History and Social Sciences building, which was near the Dean’s office, awaiting my SDU tribunal hearing for supposedly stealing Tiffany’s credit card months ago.

I wore the same outfit I’d worn to court the day Christos had been on trial. Black blazer, gray pencil skirt, white blouse, black hose, and black pumps. My makeup was light, just enough to look professional.

The outfit seemed appropriate because now I was the one about to be on trial.

A woman wearing a frumpy business suit opened one of the doors off the hallway and leaned out. “You can come in now,” she said.

She held the door for me as I walked into a conference room. At the far end of the big wooden conference table, Dean Livingston sat at the head, wearing a suit, flanked by an older woman and a middle aged guy. Both wore suits and I assumed they were SDU administrators. Tiffany sat near them, a few seats down. Mr. Selfridge, my old boss from the museum, sat across from Tiffany. With any luck, he would be able to say something that helped my case. The woman who had let me in sat near the door, behind a laptop set up on the conference table.

I nodded at Mr. Selfridge and smiled at him.

He smiled back.

I wasn’t entirely sure where I was supposed to sit. But nobody seemed to be telling me where to go, so I chose a seat closer to the door, not wanting to get too close to Tiffany. Also, If I needed to beat a hasty retreat, I could slip out the door with no one noticing. Not.

At least this wasn’t an actual courtroom with the armed bailiff and the jury and the defense tables and all the rules. Knowing that I had a slight degree of control over things today eased my nerves slightly. It’s not like I would get hauled away in handcuffs if things went badly.

I set my coffee on the table and my book bag on the floor. There was no way I could get through this morning massacre without caffeine. I debated pulling my laptop out, but it’s not like I had case files to review, or whatever. All I was going to do was tell them what I knew, which wasn’t much, and hope they believed me.

I wished Christos had been here to hold my hand, but he had too much work to do on his paintings. It wasn’t like I would end up in jail if things went badly today. If I ended up getting kicked out of SDU, I’d see Christos every single day.

But I really, really hoped to avoid getting expelled. I’d worked too hard to throw it all away now. I didn’t want to stop taking more awesome art classes and seeing my friends every day. Because I knew if I got kicked out, no matter what anybody said, I would see a lot less of Madison, Romeo, and Kamiko.

Sigh.

Dean Livingston mumbled back and forth with the two administrators sitting beside him, then he turned to me, “Thank you for your patience, Miss Smith. I think we’re ready to begin?” He raised his eyebrows and glanced at everyone.

Nobody objected.

Dean Livingston folded his fingers on the files laying on the table in front of him. “As you know, Miss Smith,” he nodded at me, “the reason we’re here today is because Miss Kingston-Whitehouse has accused you of theft. Theft of her credit card, to be exact, while she was a visiting patron of the Eleanor M. Westbrook art museum, where you worked at the time.”

I wanted to say “I object!” but I wasn’t a lawyer and this wasn’t a courtroom. I knew enough to keep my mouth shut until they told me it was my turn to talk. Only then would I dive over the table and throttle Tiffany by the neck while demanding she tell the truth.

The Dean turned to Mr. Selfridge and said, “Mr. Selfridge would like to say a few words on your behalf, Miss Smith.”

I hadn’t expected that. I hoped he didn’t bad mouth me.

Mr. Selfridge stood up and smoothed his jacket. He clasped his hands in front of his waist and smiled at me. “Although I only had the pleasure of working with Miss Smith for a few short months, in that time I found her to be a diligent, hard working, forthright young woman. She always did her job, and did it well, was always pleasant with the visiting patrons, was never impatient, and she was always responsible.” He smiled at me before turning to the administrators. “I trusted Samantha implicitly, and had no concerns about leaving her in charge of the museum when I needed to step out for errands.”

Dean Livingston glanced up at Mr. Selfridge and said, “It is my understanding that you weren’t present at the time of the theft?”