Meg Cabot - Size 12 Is Not Fat

“And you believed her.” Cooper’s voice is toneless.

“Yeah.” Chris sighs. “She seemed cool with it. I thought—you know, the weight loss, her new hairstyle, the clothes… I thought it was a good sign, you know. That she was moving on.”

“And the fact that she had purposefully set out to get a job managing the building your parents live in,” Cooper says. “That didn’t raise a red flag that she might not be as ‘cool with it’ as you thought?”

“Obviously not,” Chris says. “Until… well, what I found out last night.”

A bell-like voice cries out, “Oh, there you are! I looked all over outside. I didn’t know you’d come in.”

Hope comes traipsing down the stairs, holding a tray of what looks—and smells—like spinach pastry puffs in one hand, and the hem of a floor-length, leopard print robe in the other.

“The canapés are ready,” she says. “Do you want them in here, or out by the pool?”

“Out by the pool, okay, honey?” Chris smiles weakly at her. “We’ll join you in a minute.”

Hope smiles good-naturedly and detours toward the sliding glass doors.

“Don’t be long,” she warns us. “They’ll get cold.”

As soon as she’s gone, Chris says, “I’ve gone over it and over it—since talking to you the other night, I mean—trying to figure out if Rachel could have done it. Killed those girls, I mean. Because I’m good, you know… but not exactly anybody worth killing over.”

He smiles weakly at his own little joke. Cooper doesn’t smile back. I guess we are still playing good cop/bad cop. Since I’m apparently the good cop, I smile back. It isn’t even hard. I mean, in spite of everything, I still sort of like Chris. I can’t help it. He’s just… Chris.

“I mean, when she and I broke up,” Chris goes on, as if there’d been no interruption, “I told you she was—well, violent. She threw my computer across the quad. That’s like a hundred and fifty feet. She’s pretty strong. A girl—a small girl, like Beth or Bobby. Well, that’d be nothing for Rachel. If she was mad enough.”

“And you believe that’s what happened to those girls?” Cooper seems to be making sure. “Not that they died accidentally, but that Rachel killed them?”

Chris is sinking deeper and deeper into his parents’ leather couch. You can tell he totally wants to disappear.

“Yes,” he says, in a small voice. “I mean… that’s the only explanation, isn’t it? Because that whole elevator surfing thing… Girls don’t elevator surf.”

I throw Cooper an I told you so look. But he doesn’t see it. He is too busy staring stonily at Chris.

In the silence that falls after this, I can hear a cricket start to chirp loudly outside. I have to admit, I’m kind of… well, moved by Chris’s speech. Oh, I still think he’s a pig and all of that. But at least he freely admits it. That’s something, anyway.

Cooper doesn’t look nearly as impressed as I am, however.

“Chris,” he says. “You’re coming back to the city with us now, and tomorrow morning, we’re going to the police.”

It isn’t a request. It’s a command.

Chris grimaces. “Why? What good will it do? They’ll just arrest me. They’ll never believe it was Rachel. Never.”

“Not if you’ve got alibis for the times of the murders,” Cooper says.

“I do,” Chris says, brightening suddenly. “I was in class when the second girl—Bobby, I mean—died. I know, ’cause we all heard the sirens and looked out the windows. Fischer Hall is right down the street from the law building… ”

Then Chris shakes his head. His hair is drying like a golden helmet on top of his head. “But they aren’t seriously going to believe that Rachel Walcott is killing the girls I’ve slept with. I mean, c’mon. Rachel just won a fucking Pansy Award for Good Samaritanism, or whatever.”

Cooper just stares at him. “Are there any girls you’ve slept with this year who aren’t dead?”

Chris looks uneasy. “Well, no, but—”

I look over my shoulder, at the archways that lead out to the pool. “What about Hope?”

“What about her?”

“Do you want her to end up dead, too?”

“No!” Chris looks appalled. “But… I mean, she’s the au pair from next door. How’s Rachel even going to—”

“Chris,” Cooper says. “Have you ever thought about taking a sabbatical from dating?”

Chris swallows.

“To tell you the truth,” he says. “I’m starting to think that might not be such a bad idea.”

“Think about it,” I say to Patty. “Rachel meets this guy, this really handsome guy, who acts like he genuinely likes her, and maybe there’s a part of him that really does… ”

“Yeah,” Patty agrees sarcastically. “The part he keeps in his briefs.”

“Whatever. This guy, he’s the first guy she’s ever come across who is interested in her, let alone meets all of her qualifications for a boyfriend. You know, he’s hot, he’s rich, he’s hetero. Okay, maybe he’s a bit of a ne’er-do-well”—I lift up the glass of orange juice that’s sitting by my bed and sip it—“living off his trust fund or whatever. But aside from that—”

“Hold on a minute.” Patty turns to say, “Put that down,” to her son. A second later, she’s back.

“Right,” she says. “Where were we?”

“Rachel,” I say.

“Oh, right. So this Christopher guy. Is he really that hot?”

“He’s hot. Plus he’s a student,” I tell her. “You aren’t supposed to sleep with students, so that makes him forbidden fruit, on top of everything else. She starts having all these fantasies—I mean, why not? She’s hit her thirties. And she’s a modern twenty-first-century gal, she wants it all: career, marriage, kids—”

“License to kill.”

“What have you. Then just as she’s getting set to circle the wagons, li’l ol’ Cowboy Chris rides off into the sunset by himself.”

“Hold on, Heather,” Patty says. To her son, she goes, “Indy! I said no! Indy—”

I hold the receiver to my ear as Patty yells at her kid. It’s nice, in a way, to be snug in my bed, not even thinking about murderers for a change, while everyone else is out running around, actually doing something about them. I’d wanted to go with Cooper and Chris to see Detective Canavan. Really. I’d told him last night, as I’d stumbled up to bed in my apartment, to wake me up before he left in the morning.

But I guess the shock from all the excitement of the day before—the explosion, the trip to the hospital, the drive to Long Island and back—had finally taken its toll, because when Cooper had tapped on my bedroom door to see if I was up, I’d yelled at him to go away.

Not that I remember doing this. I mean, I would never have been so rude if I’d actually been conscious. Cooper left a note explaining the situation, and ending with the words,Do not go to work today. Stay home and rest. I’ll call you.

And okay, he didn’t sign it Love, Cooper. Just Cooper.

But still. He has to at least, you know, respect me more now. Now that it turns out I wasn’t making it all up. About how someone had been trying to kill me, and all. I mean, he has to be thinking what a fantastic partner I’d make, to detect things with.

And who knows where that might lead? I mean, wouldn’t the next rational step be for him to fall madly in love with me?

So yeah. I’m in a good mood. It’s pouring rain outside, but I don’t care. I’m snug in my bed, watching morning cartoons with Lucy by my side. Maybe it’s only because I’d come so close to losing it, but life is seeming really, really good.

Or so I’m excitedly telling Patty. She seems very impressed by my theory—the one I’m hoping will send Detective Canavan, when he hears what Chris has to say, directly to Fischer Hall with an arrest warrant.

“I’m back,” Patty says. “Where were we?”

“Rachel. Suddenly she’s left holding the reins to the chuck wagon all by her lonesome,” I say. “So what does a modern twenty-first-century gal like Rachel do?”

“Oh, wait, wait, let me try,” Patty says, excitedly. “Rounds up a—what do they call it? Oh yes. A posse?”

“Gets rid of the competition,” I correct her. “Because in Rachel’s twisted mind, she thinks if she kills all Chris’s girlfriends, she’ll get him back through default. You know, if there aren’t any other girls left, he’ll have no choice but to return to her.”

“Wow.” Patty sounds impressed. “So how’s she doing it?”

“What do you mean, how’s she doing it? She’s pushing them down the elevator shaft.”

“Yeah, but how, Heather? How is a skinny bitch like Rachel pushing full-grown women—who surely don’t want to die—down the elevator shaft? I mean, I can’t even get my sister’s damn chihuahua into his carrier, and he’s just a tiny dog. Do you have any idea how hard it must be to push someone who doesn’t want to die down an elevator shaft? You have to open the doors first. What are these girls doing while she’s doing that? Why aren’t they fighting back? Why doesn’t Rachel have scratches on her face or on her arms? My sister’s damned dog scratches me hard when I try to put him in his Sherpa.”

I think back to my formative years of television viewing. “Chloroform,” I say, simply. “She must be using chloroform.”

“Wouldn’t the coroner be able to find traces of this?”