“I don’t need tuition money,” I say. “I get to go free because I work there, remember?”

“Yes,” Cooper says, with obviously forced patience. “But you wouldn’t have to work there if your dad would agree to pay your tuition.”

I blink at him. “You mean… quit my job?”

“To go to school full-time, if getting a degree is really your goal?” He sips his coffee. “Yes.”

It’s funny, but though what he’s saying makes sense, I can’t imagine what it would be like not to work at Fischer Hall. I’ve only been doing it for a little over half a year, but it feels like I’ve been doing it all my life. The idea of not going there every day seems strange.

Is this how everybody who works in an office feels? Or is it just that I actually like my job?

“Well,” I say, miserably, staring at my plate. My empty plate. “I guess you’re right. I just… I feel like I take enough advantage of your hospitality. I don’t want my family sponging off you now, too.”

“Why don’t you let me worry about protecting myself from spongers,” Cooper says wryly. “I can take care of myself. And besides, you don’t take advantage. My accounts have never been so well organized. The bills actually go out on time for a change,and they’re all accurate. That’s why I can’t believe they’re making you take remedial math, you do such a great job—”

I gasp at the words remedial math, suddenly remembering something. “Oh, no!”

Cooper looks startled. “What?”

“Last night was my first class,” I say, dropping my head into my hands. “And I spaced it! My first class… my first course for college credit… and I missed it!”

“I’m sure your professor will understand, Heather,” Cooper says. “Especially if he’s been reading the paper lately.”

Dad comes back into the kitchen, holding the cordless phone from the front hallway. “It’s for you, Heather,” he says. “Your boss, Tom. What a charming young man he is. We had a nice chat about last night’s game. Really, for a Division Three team, your boys put on quite a show.”

I take the phone from him, rolling my eyes. If I have to hear one more thing about basketball, I’m going to scream.

And what am I going to do about what Kimberly said last night? Was there something going on between Coach Andrews and Lindsay Combs? And if so… why would he kill her over it?

“I know the school’s closed,” I say to Tom. “But I’m still coming in.” Because, considering my newest house-mate, a monsoon couldn’t keep me away, let alone a little old nor’easter.

“Of course you are,” Tom says. Clearly, the idea that I might do what all the other New Yorkers are doing today—staying in—never even occurred to him. “That’s why I’m glad I caught you before you left. Dr. Jessup called—”

I groan. This is not a good sign.

“Yeah,” Tom says. “He called from his house in Westchester, or wherever it is he lives. He wants to make sure a representative from Housing shows up at the hospital to visit Manuel today. To show we care. Also to bring flowers, since there are no florist shops open, thanks to the storm. He says if you buy something from the hospital gift shop, I can reimburse you from petty cash… .”

“Oh,” I say. I’m confused. This is a sort of a high-profile assignment. I mean, Dr. Jessup doesn’t usually ask his assistant hall directors to step in as representatives of the department. Not that he doesn’t trust us. Just that… well, I personally haven’t been the most popular person on staff since I dropped the Wasser Hall assistant hall director during that trust game. “Are you sure I’m the one he wants to go?”

“Well,” Tom says, “he really didn’t specify. But he wants someone from the Housing Department to go, to make it look like we care—”

“We do care,” I remind him.

“Well, of course we care,” Tom says. “But I think he meant we as in the Housing Department, not we as in the people who actually know Manuel. I just figured since you and Manuel have a previously existing relationship, and you’re the one who, in effect, saved his life, and—”

“And I’m two blocks closer to St. Vincent’s than anyone else at Fischer Hall right now,” I finish for him. It’s all becoming clear now.

“Something like that,” Tom says. “So. Will you do it? Swing over there before coming here? You can take a cab there and back—if you can find one—and Dr. Jessup says he’ll reimburse you if you bring back the receipt… .”

“You know I’m happy to do it,” I say. Anytime I get to spend money and charge it to the department is a happy day for me. “How areyou doing, though?” I ask, trying to sound nonchalant, even though the answer is vitally important to my future happiness. There’s no telling what kind of heinous boss I might get assigned if Tom left. Possibly someone like Dr. Kilgore… . “Are you still thinking… I mean, the other day you mentioned wanting to go back to Texas—”

“I’m just trying to take this one day at a time, Heather,” Tom says, with a sigh. “Murder and assault were never covered in any of my student personnel classes, you know.”

“Right,” I say. “But, you know, in Texas they don’t have fun blizzards. At least, not very often.”

“That’s true,” he says. Still, Tom doesn’t sound convinced of New York’s superiority over Texas. “Anyway, I’ll see you in a bit. Stay warm.”

“Thanks,” I say. And I hang up… … to find Cooper looking at me strangely over his coffee.

“Going to St. Vincent’s to visit Manuel?” he asks lightly. Too lightly.

“Yes,” I say, averting my gaze. I know what he’s thinking. And nothing could be further from the truth. Well, maybe not nothing … . “I doubt I’ll find a cab, so I better go bundle up—”

“You’re just going to give Manuel get-well wishes,” Cooper says, “and then head back to work, right? You wouldn’t, say, hang around and try to question him about who attacked him last night and why, would you?”

I laugh heartily at that. “Cooper!” I cry. “God, you’re so funny! Of course I wouldn’t do that. I mean, the poor guy was brutally stabbed. He was in surgery all night. He probably won’t even be awake. I’ll just sneak in, leave the flowers—and balloons—and go.”

“Right,” Cooper says. “Because Detective Canavan told you to stay out of the investigation into Lindsay’s murder.”

“Totally,” I say.

Dad, who has been watching our exchange with the same kind of intensity he watched the basketball game the night before, looks confused. “Why would Heather interfere with the investigation into that poor girl’s death?”

“Oh,” Cooper says, “let’s just say that your daughter has a tendency to get a little over-involved in the lives of her residents. And their deaths.”

Dad looks at me gravely. “Now, honey,” he says, “you really ought to leave that sort of thing to the police. You don’t want to be getting hurt, now, do you?”

I look from Dad to Cooper and then back again. Suddenly it hits me: I’m outnumbered. There’s two of them now, and only one of me.

I let out a frustrated scream and stomp out of the room.