The Cheerleaders(80)

Ethan wiped it away. “Say it. I’m still here.”

Jen obeyed, her voice straining against the invisible grip on her throat. “I’m still here.”

She repeated the words in her head. But the longer they played on their loop, the less the words felt like an affirmation.

I’m still here.

It was starting to feel like a curse.





Mango scratches at my door around midnight. I shoo him back to my mother and Tom’s room. He gives me a look that makes me feel like the most evil person who has ever lived.

I wait another half hour to make sure he doesn’t come back before tiptoeing out of my room. Tom’s snores carry out into the hall; I take the stairs, pausing on every step to listen for the sounds of the snores behind me.

Tom’s computer is password protected. I try my mother’s name, Petey’s name, even mine with every permutation of our birthdays. None work, even when I substitute our names with NYGiants.

I open the top drawer of his desk, searching for a stray Post-it with passwords scribbled on it. I move my hand down to the third drawer, but it doesn’t budge when I tug the handle.

Dread pools in my stomach. I left this drawer unlocked—Tom must have found it that way and known someone had been inside. I think of him searching through the contents. Realizing Jen’s phone was gone. Figuring out there’s only one person in this house with a reason to steal it.

I stand so forcefully the desk chair rolls backward. I need to get the hell out of here. When I turn and face the office doorway, I yelp.

Tom’s arms are folded across his chest. He looks at me as if there are a million things he wants to say, but he settles on one word: “Sit.”

Tom points to the love seat by the window. I comply while he flips the light on and sits at his desk. He steeples his fingers in front of his mouth. Shuts his eyes and spins small semicircles in his desk chair.

I don’t know if he’s waiting for me to defend myself or not.

“What are you doing?” I finally ask.

After a beat, he says, “I am trying to decide if there’s a way to ream you out that doesn’t involve your mother.”

“Didn’t you tell me that Mom doesn’t need to know everything that goes on around here?”

Tom’s eyes fly open. “You think this is funny? I keep my gun in the safe in here.”

His voice cracks on the word gun, sending my guts into a knot.

“How did she kill herself?” I’ve asked him before, of course. The answer never changes. But now Tom’s refusal to tell me the truth feels like another notch in Ethan’s column.

Tom stares back at me, unmoved. “I swore to your mother that I would never tell you that.”

“That’s bullshit. I can handle it.”

Tom slams a hand on his desktop. “It’s not up to you.”

For a second, I really think he’s going to lose it on me. But his expression softens. He runs his hands down his face. Takes an audible breath and stares at me as if for a moment he’d forgotten that I’m sitting here.

“You’ve got to be up early for the parade tomorrow,” he says. “We’ll talk about this some other time.”

“I want to talk about it now,” I snap, hating how I sound like a petulant child.

Tom sighs and reaches for the second drawer of his desk. He roots around and emerges with a bottle of bourbon and a glass. I blink at him as he pours himself two inches and tosses it back.

“Why do you have that in your desk?”

Tom swirls his glass, his eyes on the dregs clinging to the bottom. “Your mother doesn’t like me drinking.”

“Because you did it too much after Jen died?”

Tom pours himself another generous helping of bourbon. “Right you are.”

As he knocks back the second glass, the pit in my stomach widens. “Do you need to do that?”

“Monica, if you want me to talk about something I really don’t want to talk about, then yes. I need to.”

Tom closes his eyes. Tilts his head back. When he opens his eyes again, they focus on me. “What do you want to know?”

Everything. “Why didn’t you confront me when you realized I took Jen’s phone?”

“I wasn’t entirely convinced it wasn’t your mother who took it. She doesn’t know I kept it when I canceled Jen’s phone number.”

“But why did you keep it?”

“Monica. If your child took her own life, you would want to examine every single thing she did leading up to that moment to figure out why.”

“So you knew she’d been talking to Ethan McCready. He was the last person who called her.”

“Yes. When I learned it was his number, I lost my head and said some things to him that I shouldn’t have. Accused him of things.”

“You thought he had something to do with it?”

“The kid had a suicide attempt in his past.” Tom swirls the dregs of liquid in his glass. “So yes. I thought he had something to do with it.”

“But he knew something was wrong, and he tried to tell you. And you didn’t listen. You didn’t listen when he tried to tell you about what he saw at the Berrys’ the night of the murders.”

“He didn’t see anything, Monica.”