Size 14 Is Not Fat Either Read Online Free PDF Page A

heavy.”
    “Name?”
    I realize, belatedly, that I’ve just managed to incriminate one of my residents. Coach Andrews realizes it, too.
    “Aw, come on, Detective,” he says. “Mark isn’t capable of—”
    “Mark what?” Detective Canavan demands.
    Coach Andrews, I see, is looking panicky. Dr. Allington rushes in to his favorite employee’s rescue.
    Well, sort of.

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    “The Pansies do have a very important ball game tomorrow night,” the president begins worriedly,
    “against the Jersey College East Devils. We’re eight-and-oh, you know.”
    To which Coach Andrews adds defensively, “And none of my boys had anything to do with what happened to Lindsay. I don’t want them dragged into it.”
    Detective Canavan—not even sounding like he’s lying, which I know he is—says, “I sympathize with your dilemma, Coach. You, too, Dr. Allington. But the fact is, I have a job to do. Now—”
    “I don’t thinkyou understand, Detective,” Dr. Allington interrupts. “Tomorrow night’s game is being televised on New York One. Millions of dollars of commercial advertising is at stake here.”
    I stare at the president, openmouthed in astonishment. I notice Dean Evans is doing the same thing. She meets my gaze, and it’s clear we’re both thinking:Whoa. He did notjust say that.
    You would think, considering we’re both on the same cognitive wavelength, she’d be a little more sympathetic about the remedial math thing. But I guess not.
    “You’rethe one who doesn’t understand, Doctor.” Detective Canavan’s voice is hard, and loud enough to make Magda and her fellow cafeteria workers stop crying and lift up their heads. “Either your people give me the name of the girl’s boyfriend now, or you’ll be sending more girls home later this semester in body bags. Because I can guarantee, whatever sick bastard did this to Miss Combs, he will do it again, to someone else.”
    Dr. Allington stares hard at the detective, who stares even harder back.
    “Mark Shepelsky,” I say quickly. “Her boyfriend’s name is Mark Shepelsky. He’s in Room Two-twelve.”
    Coach Andrews slumps across the tabletop, burying his head in his arms. Dr. Allington groans, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger as if stricken by a sudden sinus headache. Dr.
    Jessup just looks at the ceiling, while Dr. Flynn, the Housing Department’s on-staff psychologist, smiles sadly at me from the table where he sits with the other school administrators.
    Detective Canavan looks a bit calmer as he flips his notepad back open and jots down the name.
    “There,” he says. “That didn’t hurt, now, did it?”
    “But,” I say. Detective Canavan sighs audibly at myBut . I ignore him. “Lindsay’s boyfriend couldn’t have had anything to do with this.”
    Detective Canavan turns his rock-hard stare on me. “And just how would you know that?”
    “Well,” I say, “whoever killed her had to have access to a key to the cafeteria. Because he’d need one to sneak in before the caf was open in order to hack up his girlfriend, clean the place up, and get out by the time the staff arrived. But how would Mark get hold of a key? I mean, if you think about it, Fischer Hall employees ought to really be your primary suspects—”
    “Heather.” Detective Canavan’s already squinty eyes narrow even further. “Do not—I repeat, do not—be getting any ideas that you’re going to be launching your own personal investigation into this girl’s Page 17

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    murder. This is the work of a sick and unbalanced mind, and it’d be in the best interest of everyone, yourself most particularly, if this time you left the investigating to the professionals. Believe me, we have things under control.”
    I blink at him. Detective Canavan can be scary when he wants to be. I can