The Cheerleaders(89)

“I quit,” I say. “I should have done it sooner. But you have a week before regionals to rework the spots.”

Coach works the top of her pen with her thumb, giving it a click. “Are you sure this is what you want?”

I couldn’t eat the morning after dance team tryouts freshman year. I tried to strike a deal with God: If I make the team, I promise I’ll be nicer to Mom and Petey and give all my Christmas money to the animal shelter. I’d never wanted anything so badly.

Freshman-year Monica would want to punch me in the face.

“Yes,” I tell Coach.

She blinks at me, the ghost of a smile on her lips, before going back to her paperwork. “You’re all right, Rayburn.”

I don’t know which way she means it. But when I leave her office, I feel lighter than I did when I stepped inside.



* * *



—

I catch the three-thirty bus home from school. The days are getting shorter. It feels strange, being home before dark. As I climb the driveway, I see my mother’s silhouette in the window, hanging a strand of orange holiday lights. The outside of the house looks different too; she’s stretched cotton cobwebs over the bushes, and a skeleton in a top hat hangs off the hook on the front door.

When the door clicks shut behind me, Mango starts barking. My mom pops her head into the foyer, the tangle of Halloween lights in hand. “You’re home.”

“I quit dance team.”

She comes to my side, draping an arm around my shoulder and pulling me in for a hug. I’m almost as tall as she is now. I let her squeeze me for a solid minute before putting my hands on her shoulders and gently pushing her away. “Do you need help with the lights?”

After the lights are strung, I head up to my room and shrug out of my jeans, replacing them with pajama pants. I plop into my desk chair and open up my email, bracing for anonymous hate messages about what a life-ruining slut I am.

I only have one message, and it’s from Daphne Furman. My heartbeat skips; there’s no way she knows that I’m the Sunnybrook High victim. There was no mention of Brandon’s connection to the cheerleader murders in the media—

The gears in my head grind to a halt when I see the subject line.


Phil Cordero.



I pull my feet onto my desk chair and tuck them under me.


Hi Monica—

My contact had a tough time with this one. He couldn’t find any record of employment, taxes, or incarceration for Phil Cordero in the last five years.

Four years ago, his wife filed a request to have him declared dead, but it looks like the judge denied it. The record shows that Phil’s wife posted a five-thousand-dollar bail for a previous DUI charge he was set to appear for before he disappeared (unrelated to the domestic violence charge—this guy seems like a real winner). If a defendant dies before a case goes to trial and bail is paid in cash, whoever posted the bail can get the money back. It’s pretty difficult to provide proof of death without a body or evidence that a person met foul play.

Anyway, the motion to have Phil declared dead states that the last time his wife saw him was the morning of October 27. Several other people saw him at a bar that evening. I’m sure you’ve realized that this means Phil Cordero was last seen a full week before the murders.

I’m sorry—I know you were hoping this would turn into a viable lead. I’ll admit that I was too. My guess? Phil Cordero was facing upward of fifteen years in prison for the domestic violence charges and the DUI and fled. Wherever he’s hiding, he’s doing a good job of it. Probably shacked up with some poor woman who has no idea what he did.

Let me know if there’s anything else I can do to help.

Best,

Daphne



I read it again to make sure I have it right. Ginny said her father left on October 18, a full three days before this report says he was last seen.

Either Ginny has the date her dad went missing wrong, or she lied about it.

Ginny’s father was last seen the night of Bethany and Colleen’s accident.



* * *



—

I wake up on the morning of the anniversary of Jen’s death feeling different than I did last year. The numbness that I always feel is still there, but I can feel too.

I can cry, so I do, in the shower. Rachel texts me that she’s outside while I’m still dabbing concealer over my dark circles. I stick the wand back in the tube. Stare at myself in the mirror, watching the rise and fall of my chest as I exhale.

No one at school, aside from Rach and Alexa, is delicate with me today. They don’t know what today is, and that’s fine by me. I don’t want to be treated as if I’m breakable.

When I stop by my locker at the end of the day and find Jimmy Varney waiting for me, my breath gets caught in my throat. His older brother was in Jen’s grade; he must remember. He must be here to say how sorry he is, how he’s been thinking about my family and me today.

The last thing I’m expecting him to say is, “Do you want to go to Big Hero’s?”

“Now?”

“Well. Rumor has it you quit dance team, and seeing how I don’t have a cross-country coach anymore, I figured we’re both free this afternoon.”

He must sense how I stiffen at the mention of Brandon. “Monica,” he says softly. “I don’t care about that.”