“God,” I say.

But though back in the dorm—I mean, residence hall—I couldn’t think about what had happened to Lindsay without feeling a wave of nausea, I have no trouble finishing my sandwich. Maybe it’s because I really was starving.

Or maybe it’s because of Cooper’s soothing presence. Love does funny things to you, I guess.

Speaking of love…

My cell phone chirps, and when I take it out of my pocket, I see that Jordan is calling me. Again. I hastily shove the phone back into the recesses of my coat.

Not quickly enough, though.

“He must really need to talk to you about something,” Cooper says mildly. “He left a message at home, too.”

“I know,” I say sheepishly. “I heard it.”

“I see.” Cooper looks amused about something… at least by the way the corners of his mouth curl up beneath the quarter inch of dark fuzz growing around them. “And you aren’t calling him back because… ?”

“Whatever,” I say, annoyed. But not with Cooper. I’m annoyed with his brother, who refuses to realize that a breakup is just that: a breakup. You don’t keep on calling your ex, especially when you’re engaged to someone else, after you’ve broken up. I mean, it’s common courtesy.

I guess it doesn’t help that I keep sleeping with him. Jordan, I mean.

But seriously, it was just that one time on Cooper’s hallway runner, and in a moment of total weakness. It’s not like it’s ever going to happen again.

I don’t think.

I guess you could also say I’m a little annoyed with myself.

“So did you know her?” Cooper asks, artfully changing the subject, most likely because he can tell it’s not one I’m relishing.

“Who? The dead girl?” I take a slug of Yoo-Hoo. “Yeah. Everyone did. She was popular. A cheerleader.”

Cooper looks shocked. “They have cheerleaders in college?”

“Sure,” I say. “New York College’s team made it to the finals last year.”

“The finals of what?”

“I don’t know,” I admit. “But they’re proud of it. Lindsay—that’s the dead girl—was especially proud of it. She was studying to be an accountant. But she had tons of school spirit. She—” I break off. Even Yoo-Hoo doesn’t help this time. “Cooper. Who would do something like that to someone? And why?”

“Well, what do you know about this girl?” he asks. “I mean, besides that she was a cheerleader studying to be an accountant?”

I think about it. “She was dating one of the basketball players,” I say, after a while. “In fact, I think he might be a suspect. Detective Canavan seems to think so, anyway. But he didn’t do it. I know he didn’t. Mark’s a nice kid. He’d never kill anyone. And certainly not his girlfriend. And not that way.”

“It’s the way that strikes me as… ” Cooper shrugs beneath his anorak. “Well, the word overkill comes to mind. It’s almost as if the killer left her that way as a warning.”

“A warning to who?” I ask. “Jimmy the line cook?”

“Well, if we knew that,” Cooper says, “we’d have a good idea who did it, wouldn’t we? And why. Canavan’s right to start with the boyfriend. He any good? As a ballplayer, I mean?”

I look at him blankly. “Coop. We’re Division Three. How good can he be?”

“But the Pansies have been playing a lot better since they got that new coach, this Andrews guy,” Cooper says, with a slight smile… I guess at my sports ignorance. “They’ve even started broadcasting the games. Locally only, I know. But still. I take it tomorrow night’s game will be canceled, in light of all this?”

I snort. “Are you kidding? We’re playing the New Jersey East Devils at home. Don’t you know we’re eight-and-oh?”

Cooper’s smile broadens, but his voice is tinged with frost. “The head of one of the cheerleaders was found in her dorm cafeteria, but they aren’t canceling tomorrow night’s ball game?”

“Residence hall,” I correct him.

“Heather Wells?” A doctor has come out of the ER, holding a clipboard.

“Excuse me,” I say to Cooper, and hurry over to the ER doc, who informs me that Gavin is recovering nicely and that she’s releasing him. He’ll be out as soon as he’s signed the appropriate forms. I thank the doctor and return to Cooper’s side, only to find he’s already on his feet, scooping up the debris from our picnic and stuffing it into a nearby trash can.

“Gavin’s ready to go,” I say to him.

“So I gathered.” Cooper pulls his gloves back on, readying himself for the plunge back into the arctic weather. “You guys need a lift back?”

“I doubt Gavin’s up to walking,” I say. “But we’ll grab a cab. I’m not running the risk of him barfing in your car.”

“For which I thank you,” Cooper says gravely. “Well, see you at home, then. And, Heather… about Lindsay—”

“Don’t worry,” I interrupt. “In no way am I going to interfere with the investigation into her death. I totally learned my lesson last time. The NYPD is on their own with this one.”

Cooper looks serious. “That wasn’t what I was going to say,” he informs me. “It never occurred to me that you would even consider getting involved in what happened at Fischer Hall today. Especially not after what happened last time.”

It’s ridiculous. And yet, I feel stung.

“You mean last time, when I figured out who the killer was before anybody else did?” I demand. “Before anyone else even realized those girls were being killed, and not dying of their own recklessness?”

“Whoa,” Cooper says. “Slow down, slugger. I just meant—”

“Because you do realize that whoever did this to Lindsay had to have access to the keys to the café, right?” I don’t care that the homeless guy with the bottle-in-the-bag is now giving ME the wary eye he’d given Cooper just minutes before. What I lack in shoulder breadth, I make up for with hip girth. Oh, and pure shrillness.

“Because there was no sign of forced entry,” I go on. “Whoever put Lindsay’s head in there had to have had access to a master key. We’re talking about three or four individual locks. No one could’ve picked three or four different locks, not in one night, not without somebody noticing. So it had to be somebody who works for the school. Somebody with access to the keys. Somebody I KNOW.”

“Okay,” Cooper says, in a soothing voice… probably the same voice he uses on his clients, hysterical wives who are convinced their husbands are cheating on them, and need to hire him to prove it in order to get custody of the Hamptons beach house. “Calm down. Detective Canavan is on it, right?”

“Right,” I say. I don’t add that my faith in Detective Canavan’s investigative skills is not high. I mean, I did almost die once because of them.

“So don’t worry about it,” Cooper says. He’s laid a hand on my shoulder. Too bad I’m wearing so much—coat, sweater, turtleneck, undershirt, bra—I can barely even feel it. “Whoever it was, Canavan’ll catch him. This isn’t like last time, Heather. Last time, no one but you was even sure there’d been a crime. This time… well, it’s pretty obvious. The police will take care of it, Heather.” His fingers tighten on my shoulder. His gaze is intent on mine. I feel like I could dive into those blue eyes of his and just start swimming, and go on and on and never reach the horizon.

“Yo, Wells.”

Trust Gavin McGoren to pick that moment to come limping out of the ER.

“This guy bothering you, Wells?” Gavin wants to know, thrusting his wispily goateed chin in Cooper’s direction.

I restrain myself—barely—from hitting him. College staff is forbidden from striking students, no matter how sorely tempted we might be. Interestingly, we aren’t allowed to kiss them, either. Not that I’ve ever wanted to, at least where Gavin is concerned.

“No, he isn’t bothering me,” I say. “This is my friend Cooper. Cooper, this is Gavin.”

“Hey,” Cooper says, holding out his right hand.

But Gavin just ignores the hand.

“This guy your boyfriend?” he demands of me, rudely.

“Gavin,” I say, mortified. I can’t look anywhere in the vicinity of Cooper’s face. “No. You know perfectly well he’s not my boyfriend.”