The Cheerleaders(46)

“And you realized it was around the time you saw the argument on the deck?”

“Bingo.” Ethan plucks a packet of sugar from the holder on the table. Pinches it between two fingers and gives it a shake. “I went to the police department and asked to talk to an officer. They put me in a room with this younger cop. He started taking my statement, until your stepdad busted in. He was pissed.”

“At what?” I ask.

“My being there? Me existing at all? I don’t know. He made the other cop leave the room so he could grill the shit out of me. He fixated on the fact that I was outside Susan’s house, like I went there wanting to kill her but Jack Canning beat me to it.” Ethan grips the packet of sugar, the tips of his fingers turning pink. “Jen was dead by then. He started railing at me that he knew I called that morning. It was like he was trying to accuse me of convincing her to—” Ethan swallows. “He told me if I kept telling lies about the murders and caused the families more pain, he would beat me into a coma.”

“That’s not Tom,” I say, hearing the rage bubbling in my voice. Having a shooting on his record would follow Tom for the rest of his career and haunt his conscience for the rest of his life. He wouldn’t threaten to assault a potential witness to a crime. “Tom wouldn’t say something like that to anyone.”

Ethan opens his mouth. Shuts it. Tears open the sugar packet and tips the contents into his coffee. “Grief makes people lose their shit.”

“So you seriously want me to believe Tom interfered with an investigation and never told anyone what you saw?” I demand.

“I don’t care what you believe.” Ethan’s gaze flicks down to the empty sugar packet. He folds it in half. “I assume you want to know why I told you not to trust anything Tom says. Now you have an answer.”

Ethan sets his other hand on the table. He’s holding a cigarette lighter. He drops it on the table. Gives it a spin. I think of all the boys in my classes. Their restless hands, always tapping, drumming pencils against the desk, taking apart pens and putting them back together like they’re puzzles.

Another piece clicks into place in my brain.

I say: “?‘I know it wasn’t him. Connect the dots.’?”

Ethan’s fingers go still around his lighter. He looks up at me.

“I know it was you,” I say. “You’ve been sending those letters to Tom.”

Ethan traces the rim of his mug with a finger. “How do you know about them?”

“I saw them in his desk.” My nerves are thrumming with anticipation. “You send him pictures of all the girls, and not just Juliana and Susan. You don’t think the deaths are a coincidence.”

Ethan meets my gaze. “And you do?”

I glance at Ginny. Her brow is furrowed, eyes focused on me. I’ve been waiting for a moment like this for years—waiting for someone to tell me Jen didn’t want to die. Waiting for the missing piece to prove her death was wrapped up in the others and that she didn’t kill herself out of survivor’s guilt.

“I don’t know,” I say. I’m not sure which of them I’m speaking to. My stomach sinks when I see the look of pity on Ginny’s face.

I turn my eyes to Ethan. “What do you mean by ‘connect the dots’? What dots?”

“Well,” he says, “you can start by tying the car crash to the murders.”

The force in Ginny’s voice startles me. “That’s just ridiculous. How could the crash have anything to do with the murders? It was an accident.”

Ethan blinks at her. “Do you want to hear this or not?”

I give Ginny a pleading look. She clamps her mouth shut, jaw moving as she chews the inside of her cheek.

Ethan’s eyes flick from her to me. “Do you know the details of the crash?”

“Bethany was speeding, and she lost control of the car,” I say.

“She was going seventy in a fifty zone,” Ethan says. “So technically, she was speeding. But have you ever driven on Osprey Road?”

“Yes. People drive like lunatics on it.”

“Exactly. So in relative terms, Bethany wasn’t even going that fast.” Ethan wraps his hands around his mug. “Cell phone records show she wasn’t texting. Tox screen showed she hadn’t been drinking or doing drugs.”

Next to me, Ginny pipes up: “Still waiting for you to explain what this has to do with the murders.”

“Before the crash, Bethany and Colleen stopped at 7-Eleven,” Ethan says. “A bunch of people saw two guys in a pickup truck catcall them in the parking lot. Bethany shouted something at them, and they shouted back, and when Bethany turned out of the lot, the truck followed them.”

“Who are these people?” I ask. “The ones who saw what happened?”

“They were friends of mine,” Ethan says. At the look on my face, he adds: “Despite what you might have heard, I did have friends.”

I think of the type of guys who hang out in the 7-Eleven parking lot. Potheads. “So you think some mysterious truck ran Bethany off the road?”

“You make it sound like I came up with the idea,” Ethan says. “You really have no idea what it was like in the months after everything happened, do you?”

I swallow. “What do you mean?”