The Cheerleaders(8)

Later, when the police were processing the scene, they tossed Jack Canning’s bedroom and found several pictures of Susan sunbathing by her pool.

My brain circles back to those months after the murders, while the investigation was ongoing. They were the worst of our lives; Jen was dead, and we didn’t know if Tom would face any charges in the shooting. I can still see Tom sitting in the dark in our den every night, beer bottle wedged between his knees. Killing Jack Canning was the only time my stepfather had ever discharged his weapon.

I force myself to read the rest of the story.


Jack Canning lived next door to Susan Berry, 15, one of the teenaged victims. Court records show that when Mr. Canning was 20, he was arrested for a lewd act with a minor. Due to the victim’s refusal to cooperate with police, the district attorney’s office decided to drop all charges.

Many in Sunnybrook feel that this oversight cost two young women their lives. “This was a preventable tragedy,” says Diana Shaw, who lived across the street from Mr. Canning and his mother. “We should have known that a predator was living in our neighborhood. The justice system failed, and now two beautiful girls are dead.”

According to officers Carlino and Mejia, they pursued Mr. Canning into his home upon seeing him behaving suspiciously near the crime scene. The officers claimed Mr. Canning barricaded himself in his bedroom. Upon breaking the door down, Officer Carlino found Mr. Canning removing something from his dresser drawer. When Mr. Canning refused to show his hands, Mr. Carlino fired. Mr. Canning died at the scene. Later, investigators found a revolver in Mr. Canning’s dresser drawer and several photos of Susan Berry, including ones of her sunbathing by her pool.



I sit back in my chair, an odd thrumming in my body. Something isn’t right.

This article says that Jack Canning was reaching into his dresser drawer before Tom shot him.

I read the paragraph again, searching for any mention of Jack Canning pointing a gun at Tom and Mike. When I don’t find one, I double back to the search results and narrow the hits to ones that mention Tom and Mike by name.

This can’t be right. They all say the same thing, that Jack Canning was reaching into his dresser, where he kept a gun, when Tom killed him.

So why, in the version of the events I have in my head, was Jack Canning pointing the gun at Tom and Mike?

In the weeks that followed, my mother shielded me from the news. She said Tom had to shoot Jack Canning, or Canning would have shot Tom and Mike. Everyone else in town was saying it too—that Jack Canning murdered two girls and would have murdered two cops as well if Tom hadn’t taken him down. In public, and especially when the cameras were rolling, they all spoke about what a tragedy that night was. In private, I heard people whisper about how glad they were that my stepfather had killed the pervert and how they hoped Jack Canning suffered in his final moments.

I bring my feet up to my chair. Hug my knees to my chest. If Jack Canning hadn’t really been reaching for his gun…

My door creaks open, sending my stomach into my throat.

I slam my laptop shut. Tom is standing there, his shape illuminated by the glow of the hallway sconce outside my door.

“Jesus,” I say. “Can’t you knock?”

Tom cocks his head at me. Mango rockets past him and crouches at the base of my bed. He tries to jump, but he’s not used to the height of my new bed. The result is him pathetically bouncing on his back legs.

“I thought you were asleep,” Tom says. “The dog was scratching at your door to get in.”

I push myself away from my desk. Scoop up Mango and deposit him on the bed.

Tom is still watching me. “What are you doing up?”

“Nothing. I couldn’t sleep.”

Tom eyes my laptop. “Staring at your screen will only make it worse.”

I try to imagine what his reaction would be if he knew what I’d been reading.

I know it wasn’t him. Connect the dots.

I want to ask him what it means, but I can’t tell him I know about the letters. Hey, Tom, I found something weird when I was snooping through your desk for drugs. I can’t form any words at all.

“I know,” I say. “I might take some melatonin.”

“That’s a good idea,” he says. As he’s shutting my door, I think I see him look at my laptop once more.



* * *



—

I have to make up the chem quiz I missed yesterday. I finish with ten minutes left in the lunch period. On my way to the cafeteria, a security guard spots me.

“Where we going, hon?”

“Lunch,” I say, and he nods and leaves it at that. No one ever says shit to me. For being in the hall after the bell, for being in the newspaper office without a pass. I’ve seen how security hassles some of the other kids—groups of black girls, the guys who speak to each other in Spanish, the rowdy football players. I’ve done worse things in one summer than all of them have probably ever done combined.

Rachel spots me from across the cafeteria; she waves with one hand and gives Alexa’s shoulder a shake with her other. Alexa looks over at me and clamps her mouth shut. A wave of paranoia hits me.

They can’t have figured it out. They don’t even know I’ve been with a guy since Matt and I broke up.

Rachel moves her bag off the seat next to her so I can slide in. I hold back a wince.