The Cheerleaders(74)

“No,” Ginny finally says. “I wouldn’t think it had anything to do with the murders. Especially if the police said they knew who did it.”

A thumping noise rattles Ginny’s car. We jerk in our seats; in the side mirror, I see a pack of guys whooping, weaving between cars, giving each one a hearty slap on the back. I wonder if the brawl on the field has died down.

“You’re right,” I tell Ginny. “Carly sounds scary, but her killing two girls because Juliana ratted her out to their coach…it doesn’t fit. Also, Patrice confirmed the pickup truck wasn’t Carly’s.”

“It doesn’t mean Carly wasn’t there that night or that she wasn’t involved somehow.”

Ginny looks lost in her thoughts. I keep quiet, letting her piece them together.

“I just keep thinking about something Patrice said. How no one understood the power Carly had over Juliana.” Ginny lifts her thumb to her mouth, ready to gnaw at her cuticle. When she catches me eyeing her, she drops her hand to her lap. “What if Carly got Juliana mixed up in something really bad? Maybe Juliana was in over her head and confided in Allie. We should talk to her,” she says. “If we can find a way to contact her.”

“We can.” I look out my window, my stomach suddenly feeling very tight. “The first person in my sister’s contacts is named Allie.”



* * *



—

I head straight for my closet when I get home and open my jewelry box. Jen’s phone rests on top, where I left it.

I sit back on my heels and open her contacts. At the very top of the list is the name Allie Lewandowski.

Mango wanders into my closet, nose in the air, trying to sniff out food. He sees me on the floor, empty-handed except for Jen’s phone, and turns to leave, bored.

Stealing Allie Lewandowski’s phone number from my dead sister is wrong. Obviously I know that. But Ginny and I got this far, and I’m not going to stop because of some false sense of decency. Decency went out the window long ago.

I copy Allie’s number into my phone and tap out a text message.





I stay up until past midnight, watching my phone, waiting for her to reply. But my text inbox stays empty until I fall asleep, and it’s empty when I wake up.



* * *



—

It’s Monday evening, after practice, and I’m unlacing my shoes in the locker room. Alexa and Rach are refilling their water bottles at the fountain outside Coach’s office, voices echoing through the locker room. Their conversation bounces from the male kickline routine they’re planning for Spirit Night to regionals in two weeks, and hearing it makes me feel so lonely I could puke.

Ginny pokes her head around the corner. She sits on the bench next to me. “Anything from Allie?”

I shake my head. I swing my feet off the bench and wiggle my toes, finally free of the restrictive dance shoes. “Texting her was probably a bad idea. I probably freaked her out like I freaked Carly out.”

I wait for Ginny to disagree, but she shrugs. “That number is five years old. She may have gotten a new one.”

We walk into the hall together. The cross-country guys are spilling out of their locker room, bringing the cocktail of body odor and Axe spray with them. My body tenses up. Cross-country practice letting out means Brandon is nearby.

Next to me, Ginny’s voice is quiet. “Are you okay?”

I nod. “Yeah. Just exhausted.”

She studies me, wearing that curious look that says she doesn’t believe me but she won’t push it. “I’ve got to catch the bus. Let me know if you hear from her.”

“I will.”

As I’m watching Ginny head down the hall, toward the parking lot, a guy says, “Hey, Monica.”

Jimmy Varney is walking toward me, hair clinging to his sweaty forehead. Over his shoulder, I spot Brandon emerging from the locker room, talking with a boy half his height. He looks up; his eyes connect with mine as he gives the kid a pat on the shoulder. Brandon is still watching me as the kid takes off down the hall. I swallow and turn to face Jimmy.

“Hey.”

“How are you?” Jimmy asks.

“Sweaty and disgusting.” It sounds a lot like Go away, so I slide my voice up to a friendlier octave. “How was your practice?”

I uncap my water bottle and start chugging. Jimmy grabs one of his biceps and rolls his shoulder back until it gives a small pop. “State qualifiers are next week. Coach is riding us pretty hard.”

I think of Brandon, mere feet away from us, and I choke on the water sliding down my throat. Cough until my eyes water and concern knits up Jimmy’s forehead. “You okay?”

“I’m good. Sorry.” I force out another cough and wipe my lips. Steal a look at Brandon; he’s in the doorway to the athletic office, using a sneakered foot to scratch the back of his opposite calf.

Jimmy’s voice draws me back. “What are you doing after the dance Saturday? Kelsey G’s house?”

I remember what Alexa said the other day. Varney wants to ask you to homecoming. The parade, the dance, the party—they’re the furthest things from my mind this year. “I don’t know. Are you going to Kelsey’s?”

“I am,” Jimmy says. “I think Kelsey hopes you’ll come.”