“Do I look too dressed up?” she asks anxiously. “I do, don’t I? I should go back upstairs and change? I was just—I was looking for you, to see what I should wear, but you weren’t around, so I asked Magda instead, and Magda—Magda did it.”

I look Sarah up and down. She looks, to be honest, fantastic. “Magda did this?”

“Yes. It’s too much, isn’t it? I knew it. I told her it was too much. I’m going back inside to change.”

I grab her wrist before she can do so.

“Hold on,” I say. “You look great. Honest. It’s not too much. At least, I don’t think so. Where are you going?”

A pink blush that has nothing to do with powder suffuses Sarah’s cheeks.

“Sebastian’s parents are in town,” she says. “He was arraigned this morning. They’ve posted his bail. I’m… I’m meeting them in Chinatown. We’re going to get something to eat.”

“So!” I can’t help laughing. “This is your meeting-his-parents look.”

“I look stupid,” Sarah says, tugging on the wrist I still hold. “I’ll go change.”

“No, you look great,” I say, still laughing. “Sarah, honest. You look fantastic. Don’t change a thing.”

She stops struggling. “Do you mean it? Really?”

“Really,” I say, dropping her wrist. “Sebastian is going to plotz when he sees you. I mean, the man’s just spent the past twenty-four hours in prison. What are you trying to do to him?”

Her blush deepens. “It’s just,” she says. “I know he doesn’t think of me… like that. And I want him to. I really want him to.”

“Well, one look at you in those heels,” I say, “and he won’t be able to think of anything else. You owe Magda. Big time.”

Sarah is chewing her lower lip—not a good idea, while wearing lipstick. Fortunately, she’s carrying more in a little patent leather clutch, which she opens with trembling fingers. “I feel bad, leaving the GSC to cope all on its own,” she says, as she pulls out some lip gloss. “And tonight is the big rally. But this is important, too.”

“Of course,” I say.

“I mean, this is about more than health benefits,” Sarah says, as she dabs gloss onto her lips with a little wand. “Sebastian’s life is at stake.”

“I understand,” I say. “He’s lucky to have you.”

“I just wish he’d realize it,” Sarah says, with a sigh. She puts the lip gloss back into her clutch, and snaps it closed. “Heather, there’s something else I wanted to talk to you about. Sebastian’s not allowed to leave the city, you know, until this whole thing is resolved, and the charges are dropped or whatever. When they are… well, who knows if he’ll even still want to go here, or whatever. I hope so. But until then… his parents are staying in a hotel, but it’s pretty far from campus, and I was just wondering—I know he can’t use the storage room anymore—it was wrong of me ever to abuse my grad assistant privileges that way. But could I sign him in as a guest to my room? I mean, if he wants to visit me?”

I shrug. “Of course.”

Sarah looks at me curiously. “Even though he’s the lead suspect in our boss’s murder? That’s not exactly going to make Sebastian popular around here, Heather. I mean, I don’t want you to say yes just because of your personal feelings for me. I already talked it over with Tom, and he said it was fine with him, but that it was up to you. You’re the one in the building who was closest to Owen, and I don’t want you to do anything that might have emotional repercussions for you later on. You know how you are, Heather. You act all tough on the outside, but inside, you’re just a big marshmallow, a really classic passive-aggressive—”

“Oh, look,” I say. “Here comes an empty cab. You better grab it. You know how hard it is to get an empty cab around here. Unless you want to walk over to Sixth Avenue. But in those heels, I wouldn’t advise it.”

“Oh—” She teeters unsteadily to the curb. “Thanks. Bye, Heather! Wish me luck!”

“Good luck!” I wave good-bye, watch her stagger into the cab, then hurry into the building as soon as she’s gone.

“Tom says to see him as soon as you come in,” Felicia says to me, as she hands me a huge stack of messages. “Did Sarah find you?”

“Oh, she found me, all right,” I say.

Back in the hall director’s office, Tom is freaking out, as usual.

“Where have you been?” he cries, when he sees me.

“Westchester,” I say. “I told you I was going to Westchester. Remember?”

“But you were gone so long,” Tom whines. “Like, forever. And so many people have been calling.”

“Tell me about it,” I say, waving my stack of messages as I flop down behind my desk. “Anything important?”

“Oh, just the fact that Owen’s memorial service is TODAY!” Tom shouts.

“What?” I nearly drop the phone I’ve just picked up to return Tad’s call, the first message in the pile I’m holding.

“Yeah,” Tom says. “And they want you to say a few words. Because you knew Owen better than anyone else did on campus.”

Now I really do drop the phone. “WHAT?”

“Yeah.” Tom leans back in his desk chair, which he’s scooted into the door frame of his office so he can look me in the face as he delivers these bombshells. You can tell he’s sort of enjoying himself. “And it’s at five today. They were going to have it over at the chapel, but the outpouring of grief from the community due to the tragedy has been so great, they’ve had to move it over to the sports center. So you better pull something together fast. And it better be good. Because they’re expecting at least a couple thousand people.”

I nearly choke on my own spit. A couple thousand? At Owen “Don’t Borrow Paper From the Dining Office” Veatch’s memorial service?

And I have to say a few words?

I’m so, so dead.

“But I barely knew him!” I wail.

“Maybe,” Tom volunteers, “you can just sing ‘Sugar Rush.’”

“You’re not helping,” I say.

“I know,” Tom says. “What was it Sebastian wanted you to sing at the GSC rally tonight? ‘Kumbaya.’ That’s what you should sing. Bring a divided community together.”

“Seriously, Tom. Shut up. I have to think.”

I have to write something totally good. Dr. Veatch deserves that. Just for what he was doing—well,trying to do—for Jamie, he deserves that, at the very least.

But first, of course, I have to do Reverend Mark’s PNG. Owen would want that more—he’d want to make sure Jamie was safe.

I fill out the appropriate form, then make multiple copies. It will have to go to the security office—now staffed by Mr. Rosetti’s people, I guess—as well as to the reception and security desk of the building. I’ll have to make sure my staff knows that, even though Reverend Mark is an employee of the college, he isn’t allowed inside, no matter what he might say. I don’t really think he’s going to try to get in—especially since I’m making sure he gets a copy of the PNG… as does his supervisor.

And since I’ve written, under “Reason for PNG”: Inappropriate sexual behavior around female resident, I have a pretty good idea I’ll be hearing from Reverend Mark’s supervisor just as soon as the PNG hits his desk.

I call the student office worker on duty—currently at the reception desk, sorting mail—and hand him the copies of the PNG, then send him to deliver them to the various offices to which they are addressed.

Only then do I turn my mind to the piece for Owen’s memorial service.

What am I supposed to say about Owen? That the resident assistants couldn’t seem to care less about him? I’ve yet to see a single one of them shed a tear over his loss. I’ve had bosses arrested for murder they’ve cried harder over losing (I’m not kidding, either).

That he was a fair boss? I mean, I guess that’s true. He certainly didn’t play favorites. Maybe if he had, he might not have ended up with a bullet in his brain.

Man, this is really hard. I can’t think of anything good to say about this guy.

Wait—he was nice to cats! And Jamie! He was nice to cats and big-boned girls. That’s something, right?

I can’t stand up in front of the entire college community and go, “He was nice to cats and big-boned girls.”

Okay, that’s it. I need some protein. I’ve had way too much cherry crumble. I need a bagel or maybe a DoveBar or something, to calm my nerves.

I tell Tom I’ll be right back and head to the café. It’s closed because it’s that weird period between lunch and dinner, but I know Magda will let me in. She does… but I’m surprised to see she’s not alone in there. Besides the regular staff, there are four small, dark-haired heads bent over what appears to be homework—of the first, third, sixth, and eighth grade variety.

I recognize Pete’s kids, in their blue and white school uniforms, right away.

“Hello,” I say, darting an incredulous look in Magda’s direction. She’s sitting at her cash register, filing her nails. Today, they’re lemon yellow.

“Hi, Heather,” Pete’s kids chime, in various levels of enthusiasm (the girls more so than the boys).

“Hi,” I say. “What are you guys doing here?”

“Waiting for our dad,” the eldest, Nancy, says. “He’s going to take us home when he gets done protesting.”

“No,” her sister corrects us. “He’s taking us out for pizza, then home.”

“We’re all going out for pizza,” Magda says. “The best pizza in the world, which happens to be in my neighborhood.”

“I don’t know,” Nancy says, looking dubious. “We have good pizza in my neighborhood.”

Magda makes a face. “These kids think Pizza Hut is real pizza,” Magda says to me. “Tell them.”

“Pizza Hut isn’t real pizza,” I tell them. “The way that balloon of Big Bird they fly in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade isn’t the real Big Bird.”