I lean over and rest my hand on her knee. “Felicia, there was a shooting last night in Boston. A murder. The woman who was killed was Amber Keenan.”

“Suzanne’s friend?” Felicia says, clearly shocked. “I never met Amber. Only talked to her that once on the phone. But I know she and Suzanne were good friends. They looked out for each other. Do they know who did it?”

“There were two shooters last night. The police are still looking for them.”

Suddenly, she stands up. “Brea, come. I want to show you something.” She reaches for my hand. I put down my coffee and follow her down the narrow hallway to the back of the trailer.

We stop in front of a closed door. Felicia reaches up and runs her hand along the top of the molding. She pulls down a key, puts it in the lock, and turns it. Then she opens the door and flicks on the light.

It’s a bedroom, carpeted in blue. The window shade is drawn. The walls are decorated with Patriots cheerleader posters. Over a small desk hangs a bulletin board covered with faded snapshots and newspaper clippings. Pinned in the middle is a publicity shot of Cole Wright in his Patriots uniform, helmet under his arm.

“This is her room,” says Felicia. “Just how it was.”

A small flat-screen TV sits on a wooden dresser, a DVD player alongside it. Felicia powers it up, then opens the top dresser drawer and pulls out a stack of thin plastic cases. “The police took all these, but they brought them back.”

She inserts a silver DVD in the player.

The TV flickers, then lights up. I’m looking at a scene of Patriots cheerleaders performing a routine in an empty stadium. It must be a practice session, but the ladies are in full uniform—red, white, and blue spangled shorts and tops. And they’re going full out. Kicking, dancing, strutting, beaming. The camera starts at one end of the line and pans across. These girls are clearly athletes. They also look like specimens from a glamour lab, all variations on a physical theme: Long legs. Toned bellies. Bright smiles. Thick, bouncy hair.

Felicia presses a button to freeze the frame. Then she gently taps the screen. “There she is. My baby.”

Just twenty-two. I stare at her beautiful face. I’ve seen pictures of Suzanne Bonanno, but nothing like this. In the middle of her practice, she’s radiant. Almost supernatural.

Suzanne is one of the tallest girls, positioned at the center of the formation. She appears to know exactly where the camera is, because she’s looking right into it, her eyes bright and sparkling. It’s like she’s looking at me.

Felicia hits play and lets the video run another few seconds. She freezes it again. “And that’s Amber.”