I just hadn’t anticipated it would be this hellish. I might have to eat all nine pieces myself. Cooper was just going to have to suffer. A little salt, and…

Oh. Oh, yes. No mouth orgasm, but close enough.

I’m plowing through my second bodega fried chicken leg—Lucy starting to whimper because I haven’t dropped anything yet—when the phone rings again. This time—after I’ve wiped my hands on a paper towel—I check the caller ID before answering. I’m relieved to see that it’s my best friend, Patty. I answer on the second ring.

“I’m eating bodega fried chicken,” I tell her.

“Well, I certainly would if I were you, too”—Patty’s voice, as always, is as warm and comforting as cashmere—“considering the day you’ve had.”

“You saw the news?” I ask.

“Girl, I’ve seen the new sand the newspapers from this morning. And you will not believe who called me a little while ago.”

“Oh, my God, he called you, too?” I’m stunned.

“What do you mean, me, too? He called you?”

“To make sure I was coming. Even though I RSVP’d no.”

“No!”

“Yes! Then he even said I could bring Cooper as my date.”

“Holy Christ.” That’s what I love about Patty. She knows all the appropriate responses. “His publicist must have put him up to it.”

“Or Tania’s,” I say, finishing off the chicken leg and reaching into the box for a thigh. I know I should probably eat the apple instead. But I’m sorry, an apple just isn’t going to cut it. Not after the day I’ve had. “It would make her look like less of a skank if I showed up. Like I don’t blame her for breaking Jordan and me up.”

“Which you don’t.”

“Well, we were destined for Splitsville, USA, anyway. Tania just hastened our arrival. Still, I’m not going. How gross would that be? It’s all well and good to invite the ex, to show there’s no hard feelings and all. But the ex isn’t supposed to actually go.”

“I don’t know,” Patty says. “It’s the in thing to go now. According to the Styles section in the Times.”

“Whatever,” I say. “I haven’t been stylish since the nineties. Why should I start now? You’re not going, are you?”

“Are you insane? Of course not. But, Heather, can we please talk about what happened in your dorm today? I mean, residence hall. Did you know that poor girl?”

“Yeah,” I say, picking a stringy chicken piece from between my teeth. Fortunately we’re not on video phone. “Sort of. She was nice.”

“God! Who would do such a thing? And why?”

“I don’t know,” I say. I break off a chunk of thigh meat for Lucy, after making sure it contains no cartilage or bone, and give it to her. She inhales it, then looks at me sadly, like,Where’d it go? “That’s for the police to figure out.”

“Wait.” Patty sounds incredulous. “What did you just say?”

“You heard me. I’m not getting involved in this one.”

“Good for you!” Patty takes the phone from her mouth and says to someone in the background, “It’s all right. She isn’t getting involved in this one.”

“Say hi to Frank for me,” I say.

“She says hi,” Patty says to her husband.

“How’s the new nanny working out?” I ask, since the two of them have just hired a real British nanny—a middle-aged one, because Patty swore what happened to Sienna Miller was never going to happen to her.

“Oh,” Patty says. “Nanny is fine. We’re both terrified of her, but Indy seems to adore her. Oh, Frank says to tell you that he’s very proud of you. Leaving the murder investigation to the police… this shows real growth on your part.”

“Thanks,” I say. “Magda doesn’t agree, though.”

“What do you mean?”

“She thinks the cops are going to blame the victim. Which is probably true. I mean, even Reggie said something about what happened to Lindsay looking as if it might be retribution for something she did.”

“Reggie… the drug dealer on your street corner?” Patty asks, in an incredulous voice.

“Yeah. He’s going to ask around. You know, find out the word on the street for me.”

“Heather,” Patty says, “I’m sorry, I’m confused. But when you say things like that, it makes it sound like you really do plan on getting involved in the investigation.”

“Well,” I say, “I’m not.”

There is a masculine mumble in the background. Then Patty says to Frank, “Fine, I’ll ask her. But you know what she’s going to say.”

“Ask me what?” I want to know.

“Frank has a gig at Joe’s Pub next week,” Patty says, in a tense voice. “He wants to know if you’d like to join him.”

“Of course I’ll come,” I say, surprised she feels like she has to ask. “I love that place.”

“Um, not come to the performance,” Patty says, still sounding tense. “He wants to know if you’ll join him on stage.”

I practically choke on the piece of chicken I’m swallowing. “You mean… sing?”

“No, perform a strip tease,” Patty says. “Of course sing.” Suddenly Frank’s voice fills the phone.

“Before you say no, Heather,” he says, “think about it. I know you’ve been working on your own stuff—”

“How do you know that?” I demand hotly, although I know perfectly well. Patty’s mouth is even bigger than mine. She just doesn’t tend to stuff hers with as many Dove Bars as I do mine, which is why she’s a size 6 and I’m a 12. And growing.

“Never mind how I know,” Frank says, ever the loyal husband. “You haven’t been up on a stage in years, Heather. You’ve got to get back up there.”

“Frank,” I say, “I love you. You know I do. That’s why I’m saying no. I don’t want to ruin your gig.”

“Heather, don’t be like that. You got burned by that asshole Cartwright. Senior, not junior. But don’t listen to him. I’m sure your stuff is great. And I’m dying to hear it. And the guy’s’d get a kick out of playing it. Come on. It’ll be a fun crowd.”

“No, thank you,” I say. I am trying to keep my tone light, so he won’t hear the panic in my voice. “I think my songs are a little too angry-rocker-chick for a Frank Robillard crowd.”

“What?” Frank sounds incredulous. “No way. They’ll love you. Come on, Heather. When else are you going to get a chance to play the pub? It’s a perfect venue for angry-rocker-chick stuff. Just you, a stool, and a microphone—”

Fortunately, at that moment, the call waiting goes off.

“Oops,” I say. “That’s the other line. I have to grab it. It could be Cooper.”

“Heather. Listen to me. Don’t—”

“I’ll call you back.” I click over to the other line, my relief over my narrow escape palpable. “Hello?”

“Heather?” a semi-familiar male voice asks hesitantly.

“This is she,” I say, with equal hesitance. Because not that many guys I don’t know call me. On account of I don’t give out my home number. To anyone. Because no one ever asks for it. “Who is this?”

“It’s me,” the voice says, sounding surprised. “Your dad.”

I sit there in stunned silence for maybe three seconds.

Then I go, “Oh! Dad! Hi! Sorry, I didn’t recognize your voice right away. It’s—it’s been a really long day.”

“So I heard,” Dad says. He sounds tired. Well, you would, too, if you were serving ten to twenty in a federal prison for tax evasion. “That’s the dorm where you work, right? The one where they found the girl’s head?”

“Residence hall,” I correct him automatically. “And yeah. It was pretty upsetting.” I’m frantically trying to figure out why he’s calling. It’s not my birthday. It’s not a holiday. It’s not his birthday, is it? No, that’s in December.

So what’s the occasion? My dad has never been the type to just pick up the phone and call for a chat. Especially since—even though he’s serving time at Eglin Federal Prison Camp in Florida, one of the cushiest federal prisons in America—he’s still only allowed to call collect, and then only during certain set—