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.”
I swallow the bulb of anger tightening in my throat. “Have you ever stopped to consider that maybe he did? That maybe Jack Canning didn’t do it?”
“A number of times, yes.”
It’s not what I expected him to say. The steely resolve he had when I confronted him weeks ago is gone.
“Then why didn’t you try harder?” I demand.
“We talked to Juliana and Susan’s friends,” Tom says. “We didn’t leave any stones unturned. No one wanted to hurt those girls.”
“Did you talk to Carly Amato?”
Tom blinks with droopy eyelids. “Who?”
“She was friends with Juliana.”
“The name doesn’t sound familiar. But if they were friends, someone must have talked to her.”
“Well, she could have lied to protect whoever did it. You just said you’ve considered that Jack Canning didn’t do it.”
“Sweetheart.” Tom’s eyes are red and glassy. “Just because I’m not one hundred percent certain doesn’t mean that I don’t believe in my heart of hearts that he did it. I believe the man who killed those girls is dead.”
Hearing him say it feels like a fist coming down on my heart.
“I believe the man who killed Jen is dead,” he says, and my eyes water with hot tears. “I blame Jack Canning for killing her. I know you wish there was someone still here who we can blame. I wish it sometimes too.”
I wipe my face with my pajama sleeve. Tom grabs the box of tissues on his desk and hands them to me before sitting back down.
Once I’ve wiped my nose, I look up at Tom. “Did you know it was Ethan McCready sending you the letters in your desk?”
Tom shuts his eyes. “I suspected it, yes.”
When Tom opens his eyes, he pours himself another shot of bourbon. When he meets my gaze, he sets the glass down on his desk instead of knocking it back.
“Why?” I whisper. “Why did you keep her phone?”
Tom watches me through bleary eyes. “Every now and then, I look at those calls. I’ve memorized the numbers, but I just keep going back to them like they’re a code I can’t crack.” He pauses, his gaze flitting to the bourbon on his desk. “I listen to her voice mail, hoping I’ll hear something new. I assume it’s the same reason the McCready kid sends me those letters. We think if we ask enough times, the answer will change.”
My throat is tight. “I can’t stop hearing the sound of Mom’s scream,” I say. “In the car, after she picked me up that morning. Are there things you can’t stop seeing or hearing?”
Tom nods. He closes his eyes and tilts his head all the way back until I can barely see his face. When he sits upright again, he says, “The dog was curled up next to Susan’s body, shaking. The damn thing had Jules’s blood all over his paws.”
Tom has never told me anything about what he saw in the Berrys’ house. He must be drunk to be telling me something as intimate as Beethoven, Susan’s beloved dog, lying next to her lifeless body.
Something occurs to me. “The dog. Wouldn’t he have tried to attack the killer?”
“Someone Jack’s size would have been able to throw a dog off of him.”
“But was the dog hurt? Limping or something?”
Tom’s face falls, and I know that he hadn’t thought of that. Or he did, because he’s a good cop, and he wrote it off, because even good cops make mistakes.
A perfect storm for a shoddy investigation. The police were blinded by emotion, more prone to overlook small details.
Like how strange it was that Jack Canning walked out of the Berrys’ house without a very large dog bite.
* * *
—
Preparing for the homecoming parade in the morning feels like sleepwalking through Monica 1.0’s life. I don’t recognize myself in the bathroom mirror as I go through my game makeup routine, applying false eyelashes and lining my lips in red. Everything is the same, but it’s different.
We’re marching in the parade and performing to the marching band’s music; it’s a watered-down, simple routine centered on a kickline. Still, Coach ordered us to be in full competition dress: slicked-back buns, rhinestones adhered to the corners of our eyes.
The parade starts in the high school parking lot; once we’re all here, Coach lines us up for inspection. The parking lot is filling rapidly with sports team members in uniform, band members carrying unwieldy instruments. A girl is blowing into a clarinet, tuning it shrilly.
A whistle pierces through the din. Around the parking lot, people are dropping what they’re doing to find the source of the noise. Mrs. Lin, the student council advisor, climbs onto the back of the pickup truck hitched to the senior class float. She sticks two fingers in her mouth and whistles again.
“Find your groups, please. Class court members should report to their floats. If you’re marching and on homecoming court, find your class float at the end of the parade route for the crowning ceremony.”
The band launches into a practice run of Sunnybrook’s fight song, and we run through the routine. They kick off the parade, us dancing behind them, and the other sports teams and the class floats bringing up the rear.