The Cheerleaders(54)

RUIZ, JULIANA. HOMICIDE.

STATUS: UNSOLVED/INACTIVE



I can’t do this. There are things in here that I won’t be able to unsee. Pictures of the crime scene. Pictures of them.

But Ginny already made the call. Mike is on his way home, and even though he’ll find out there’s no intruder in his yard, he and his family will spend the night in fear. If I don’t get the file, it’ll all be for nothing.

I wipe my sweaty fingertips on my knees and open the file.

There are dozens of subfiles. Folders marked with jargon I don’t understand. My heartbeat quickens; I can’t possibly go through everything before Mike gets back, or before the woman at the desk realizes I’m still here and comes looking for me.

I scroll down, stopping when I see the label on one of the folders: Written Affidavits

There are several PDF files in the folder. Scanned written statements. My breath catches in my throat; I had no idea the police talked to so many people. I get a surge of righteous anger: Of course Daphne was wrong. They did do their jobs.

I hit control + P. A prompt tells me there are more than fifty pages in this file and asks if I’m sure I want to print. I glance at the door. Click yes.

While the printer in the corner spits out the pages, I comb through the statements on the screen. In a woman’s loopy scrawl, I spot the name Jack Canning. It’s signed Alice Berry. By the time I reach the bottom of the PDF, the printer wheezes and goes quiet.

Footsteps in the hall. I click out of the database and leap out of Mike’s chair. Grab a napkin from the McDonald’s bag and dab at the Diet Coke dripping from the corner of his desk.

The receptionist pokes her head in, eyes wide. “Oh.”

“I just wanted to clean this up.” I angle myself so I’m blocking her view of the printer.

The woman waves a hand. “Don’t worry about that. I’ll get some paper towels from the bathroom.”

When she ducks out of Mike’s office, I grab the stack of papers resting on the printer tray. Shove them in my tote bag and slip into the hall. I hurry toward the lobby.

The security camera hanging over the door blinks red. I keep my eyes down and stumble out onto the street. Power-walk to the corner and lean against the telephone pole, my stomach pumping acid.

Ginny pulls up in her mother’s car, her eyes white orbs in the night. I throw open the door and collapse into the front seat. “I got it.”

She’s silent as she pulls away. I watch the police station recede in the side mirror. When we’re back on the highway, I force out the words “Pull over.”

Ginny puts her blinker on. Drives onto the shoulder. I stumble out of the still-rolling car and retch, arms wrapped around my stomach.

Nothing comes up. A cold sweat has sprung out over my body. I shut my eyes, letting the thrumming in my ears drown out the sound of the cars roaring past us.



* * *



—

I’m sitting at Ginny’s kitchen table, face buried in my hands. I look up and move them when Ginny taps my shoulder. She sets a mug of hot water in front of me.

“I don’t know if you want one or two.” She shows me a handful of hot chocolate packets. “I always use two,” she adds.

I take two packets from Ginny. “I thought I was the only one who did that.”

She smiles and slides into the chair across from me. Wraps her hands around her mug, her smile slowly fading. “I gave the nine-one-one operator a fake name and number.”

“And you’re sure no one saw you by the pay phone?”

She’s probably so sick of me asking that, but she just nods. “Positive.” Ginny eyes me. “Are you okay?”

I take a sip from my mug. Lick a spot of grainy, sweet powdered chocolate from my lip. What we just did to Mike—to his family—is so not okay.

The thump of something landing on the table jolts both of us. Panda winds around the napkin holder. Cranes her neck, sniffing at Ginny’s hot chocolate. Ginny and I look at each other and exchange a nervous laugh.

My gaze falls to the stack of papers resting between us. Ginny’s follows; the cat sits back on her haunches, tail thwacking against the table. She’s looking right at me, beady eyes seeming to say Well, what are you waiting for?

I divide the stack in two and push the bottom half toward Ginny. While she examines the size of the stack, I dig a pen out of my tote bag and flip over the cover sheet on the first statement in front of me. Scrawl Timeline at the top of the page.

The first page is filled with shaky, slanted writing. Practically unreadable. I skim to the bottom first and see it’s signed by Mr. Joseph Brenner—he lived across the street from the Berrys. I flip the page and reveal the next one in the stack; mercifully, someone has typed up Mr. Brenner’s statement.


…while I was putting out the recycling around 9:45, and noticed a pickup truck parked on the street next door, diagonally from the Berrys’ house. A petite, dark-haired girl got out of the vehicle and crossed the street. I waved to her as she headed up the Berrys’ driveway, but she appeared not to see me. The pickup truck remained parked next door, the engine on. I went inside and made a cup of tea and straightened up the kitchen. Before I went to bed I looked out the window and noticed the pickup truck was gone.



I blurt: “Someone else saw the pickup truck.”