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Mom expected her daughter to remain a virgin until marriage. She wanted Rachel to make it so that Elizabeth was only to be allowed to sign in girls. Obviously there are issues at home, but whatever—”
    It’s the job of the GA—or graduate assistant—to assist the director in the day-to-day operations of the residence hall. In return, GAs receive free room and board and practical experience in higher education, which is generally their chosen field.
    Sarah’s getting a lot more practical experience in the field here in Fischer Hall than she’d bargained on, what with a dead girl and all.
    “Clearly there was some major mother-daughter rivalry going on there,” Sarah informs us. “I mean, you could tell Mrs. Kellogg was jealous because her looks are fading while her daughter’s—”
    Sarah’s undergrad degree is in sociology. Sarah thinks that I suffer from low esteem. She told me this the day she met me, at check-in two weeks earlier, when she went to shake my hand, then cried, “Oh my God, you’re that Heather Wells?”
    When I admitted that I was, then told her—when she asked what on earth I was doing working in a college residence hall (unlike me, Sarah never messes up and calls it a dorm)—that I was hoping to get a BA one of these days, she said, “You don’t need to go to college. What you need to work on are your abandonment issues and the feelings of inadequacy you must feel for being dropped from your label and robbed by your mother.”
    Which is kind of funny, since what I feel I need to work on most are my feelings of dislike for Sarah.
    Fortunately Dr. Flynn, the housing department’s on-staff psychologist, comes hurtling toward us just then, his briefcase overflowing with paperwork.
    “Is that the deceased’s file?” he demands, by way of greeting. “I’d like to see it before I talk to the roommate and call the parents.”
    Sarah hands him the file. As Dr. Flynn flips through it, he suddenly wrinkles his nose, then asks, “What is that smell?”
    “Um,” I say. “Mrs. Allington sort of—well, she, um…”
    “She yorked,” Brad says. “In the planter over there.”
    Dr. Flynn sighs. “Not again.” His cell phone chimes, and he says, “Excuse me,” and reaches for it.
    At the same moment, the reception desk phone rings. Everyone looks down at it. When no one else reaches for it, I do.
    “Fischer Hall,” I say.
    The voice on the other end of the phone isn’t one I recognize.
    “Yes, is this that dormitory located on Washington Square West?”
    “This is a residence hall, yes,” I reply, remembering, for once, my training.
    “I was wondering if I could speak to someone about the tragedy that occurred there earlier today,” says the unfamiliar voice.
    Tragedy? I immediately become suspicious.
    “Are you a reporter?” I ask. At this point in my life, I can sniff them out a mile away.
    “Well, yes, I’m with the Post— ”
    “Then you’ll have to get in touch with the Press Relations Department. No one here has any comment. Good-bye.” I slam down the receiver.
    Brad and Tina are staring at me.
    “Wow,” Brad says. “You’re good.”
    Sarah gives her glasses a push, since they’ve started to slide down her nose.
    “She ought to be,” she says. “Considering what she’s had to deal with. The paparazzi wasn’t exactly kind, were they, Heather? Especially when you walked in and found Jordan Cartwright receiving fellatio from…who was it? Oh yes. Tania Trace.”
    “Wow,” I say, gazing at Sarah with genuine wonder. “You really put that photographic memory of yours to good use, don’t you, Sarah?”
    Sarah smiles modestly while Tina’s jaw drops.
    “Heather, you went out with Jordan Cartwright ?” she cries.
    “You caught him getting head from Tania Trace ?” Brad looks as happy as if someone’s just dropped a hundred-dollar bill in his lap.
    “Um,” I say. It’s not like I have much of a choice. They can easily Google it. “Yeah. It was a long