Meg Cabot - Size 12 Is Not Fat

“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?”

Wow. Patty is good. Especially for someone who claims not to have time to watch CSI.

“Okay, okay,” I said. “Maybe she conks them on the head with a baseball bat and slings ’em down the shaft while they’re unconscious.”

“The coroner wouldn’t have noticed this?”

“They’ve just fallen sixteen stories,” I say. “What’s another bump?”

Beep.

My call waiting is going off.

“Oh, that’s gotta be Cooper, Pats,” I say. “Listen, I’ll call you later. Want to go out for a celebratory brunch tomorrow? I mean, after they’ve incarcerated my boss?”

“Sure. Be there with bells on.” Patty hangs up. I push down on the receiver, then say, “Hello?” after I hear the line click.

But the voice I hear isn’t Cooper’s. It’s a woman’s voice.

And it sounds like whoever it belongs to is crying.

“Heather?”

It takes me a second, but then I realize who it is.

“Sarah?” I say. “Is that you?”

“Y-yes.” Sarah sniffles.

“Are you okay?” I sit up in bed. “Sarah, what’s the matter?”

“It’s… it’s Rachel,” Sarah say.

Whoa. Had the cops gotten there and arrested her already? It’s going to be a blow, I know, for the building staff, what with Justine turning out to be a ceramic heater thief, and now Rachel turning out to be a homicidal maniac.

But they’ll get over it. Maybe I’ll bring in Krispy Kremes for everyone tomorrow.

“Yeah?” I say. Because I don’t want to let on that I’d had anything to do with the arrest. Yet, anyway. “What about Rachel?”

“She… she’s dead.”

I nearly drop the phone.

“What?” I cry. “Rachel? Dead? What—”

I can’t believe it. It isn’t possible. Rachel? Dead? How on earth…

“I think she killed herself,” Sarah says with a sob. “Heather, I just came into the office, and she’s… she’s hanging here. From that grate between our office and hers.”

Oh my God.

Rachel’s hanged herself. Rachel realized that the jig was up, but instead of going quietly, she killed herself. Oh my God.

I have to remain calm. For the building’s sake, I realize. I have to be the one in charge now. The director is gone. That leaves me, the assistant director. I’m going to have to be the strong one. I’m going to have to be everybody’s beacon of light in the dark times ahead.

And it’s okay, because I’m totally prepared. It won’t be any different, really, than if Rachel had been hauled off to jail. She’s really just going to a different place. But she’s gone, just the same.

“I don’t know what to do,” Sarah says, her voice rising to a hysterical pitch. “If anyone walks in and sees this—”

“Don’t let anyone in,” I cry. Oh God. The RAs. This is the last thing they need. “Sarah, don’t let anyone come in. And don’t touch anything.” Isn’t that right? Isn’t that what they always say on Law & Order? “Call an ambulance. Call the police. Right away. Don’t let anyone into the office but the police. Okay, Sarah?”

“Okay,” Sarah says, with another sniffle. “But, Heather?”

“Yeah?”

“Can you come over? I’m… I’m so scared.”

But I’ve already sprung from my bed and am reaching for my jeans.

“I’ll be right there,” I tell her. “Hold on, Sarah. I’ll be right there.”

It’s my fault.

Rachel’s death, I mean.

I should have known. I should have known this would happen. I mean, clearly she wasn’t mentally stable. Of course at the slightest provocation, she was going to snap. I don’t know how she figured it out—that we suspected her—but she had.

And she’d taken the only way out she felt she could.

Well, there’s nothing I can do about it now. Nothing except be there for the people Rachel’s death is likely to affect the most—the building staff.

I call Cooper on his cell. He doesn’t pick up, so I leave a message, telling him what Sarah has told me. I ask him to let Detective Canavan know. And then I tell him to come to Fischer Hall as soon as he gets my message.

I can’t find an umbrella, of course. I can never find an umbrella when I really need one. Ducking my head against the steady drizzle, I hurry over to Washington Square West, marveling at how quickly the drug dealers disappear in inclement weather, and wondering where they all go. The Washington Square Diner? I’d have to check it out one day. Supposedly they have a killer chicken-fried steak.

I reach Fischer Hall and hurry inside, flicking rainwater from my hair, and smiling a little queasily at Pete. Does he know yet? Does he have any idea?

“Heather,” he cries. “What’re you doin’ here? After what you went through yesterday, I thought they’d give you a month off. You’re not working, are you?”

“No,” I say. He doesn’t know. Oh my God, he doesn’t know.

And I can’t tell him. Because the desk attendant is sitting right there, watching us.

“Oh,” Pete says. “And hey, Julio’s doing good, by the way. They’re letting him out in a few days.”

“Great,” I say, with as much enthusiasm as I can. “Well, see you later.”

“See you.”

I hurry down the hallway to the director’s office door. To my surprise, it’s partly open, even though I’d specifically told Sarah to close it. Anyone can walk in and see Rachel hanging there… unless maybe she’s done it on her side of the grate. Yes, that would make more sense, actually. Her desk is pushed up against the wall beneath the grate, so it would have been easy for her to climb up there, then jump…

“Sarah?” I say. I push the door open all the way. No sign of Rachel. The exterior office is empty. Sarah—and the body—have to be in Rachel’s office. “Sarah? Are you there?”

“In here,” I hear Sarah’s voice warble.

I glance at the grate. There’s nothing tied around it. Sarah must have cut her down. Horrific as it had to have been to find her like that, she still shouldn’t have messed with the body. That’s tampering with evidence. Or something.

“Sarah,” I say, hurrying through to Rachel’s office, “I told you not to… ”

My voice trails off. That’s because I’m not greeted by the sight of a weeping Sarah cradling Rachel’s lifeless form. Instead, I’m greeted by the sight of a perfectly healthy Rachel—wearing a new, very attractive cashmere sweater set and charcoal trousers—leaning against her desk, one booted foot balanced on her office chair…