Emily heard shots coming from down the hallway—one at a time, not in bursts. They were getting closer. The doors opened; she heard them come in. They were shooting, talking back and forth, and shouting stuff like “Who wants to be killed next?” Emily looked over her shoulder to watch. She saw a kid near the counter jump or go down. The killers walked around a lot, taunting and shooting, and Emily got a good look at them. She had never noticed them before—she was a sophomore—but was sure she could pick them out again if she ever saw them again.
The girls whispered back and forth. “Dear God, dear God, why is this happening?” Cassie asked. “I just want to go home.”
“I know,” Emily answered. “We all want to get out of here.”
Between exchanges, Cassie prayed very quietly. Eric and Dylan passed by several times, but Emily never expected one of them to “come under the table” and shoot.
Eric stopped at their table, at Cassie’s end. Emily could see his legs and his boots, pointing directly at the right side of Cassie’s face. Cassie didn’t turn. Emily didn’t have to—she was facing perpendicular to Eric’s stance, so she could look straight at Cassie and see Eric just to her left at the same time. Eric slammed his hand on table, then squatted halfway down for a look. “Peekaboo,” he said.
Eric poked his shotgun under the table rim as he came down. He didn’t pause long, or even stoop down far enough for Emily to see his face. She saw the sawed-off gun barrel. The opening was huge. She looked into Cassie’s brown eyes. Cassie was still praying. There was no time for words between them. Eric shot Cassie in the head.
Everything was muffled then. The blast was so loud, it temporarily blew out most of Emily’s hearing. The fire alarm had been unbearably loud, but now she could barely hear it. She could see the light flashing out in the hallway. Eric’s legs turned.
Bree Pasquale was sitting there, right out in the open a few steps away, beside the next table over. It had been jammed with kids when she got there—she couldn’t fit, so she sat down next to it on the floor.
Bree was a bit farther from Cassie than Emily—the next closest person—but she had a wider view. She had also seen Eric walk up with the shotgun in his right hand, slap Cassie’s tabletop twice with his left, and say, “Peekaboo.” He squatted down, balancing on the balls of his feet, still holding on to the tabletop with his free hand. Cassie looked desperate, holding her hands up against the sides of her face. Eric poked the shotgun under and fired. Not a word.
Eric was sloppy with that shot: a one-hander, in an awkward half squat. The shotgun kicked back, and the butt nailed him in the face. He broke his nose sometime during the attack, and that’s the moment investigators believe it happened. Eric had his back to Bree, so she couldn’t see the gun hit his nose. But she watched him yank back on the pump handle and eject a red shell casing. It dropped to the floor. She looked under the table. Cassie was down, blood soaking into the shoulder of her light green shirt. Emily appeared unhurt.
Bree was exposed, just a few feet from Eric, but she couldn’t take it anymore. She lay down and asked the boy beside her, who was just barely under the table, to hold her hand. He did. Bree was terrified. She did not take her eyes off Eric. He stood up after ejecting the round and turned to face her. He took a step or two toward her, squatted down again, and laid the shotgun across his thighs. Blood was pouring out of his nostrils. “I hit myself in the face!” he yelled. He was looking at her but calling out to Dylan.
Eric took hold of the gun again and pointed it in Bree’s direction. He waved it back and forth in a sweeping motion—he could shoot anyone he wanted—and it came to rest on her.
That’s when Dylan’s gun went off. Bree heard him laugh and make a joke about what he had done. When she looked back at Eric, he was staring her straight in the face.
“Do you want to die?” Eric asked.
“No.”
He asked once more.
“No no no no no.” She pleaded for him to spare her, and Eric seemed to enjoy that: The exchange went on and on. He kept the gun right to her head the whole time.
“Don’t shoot me,” she said. “I don’t want to die.”
Finally, Eric let out a big laugh. “Everyone is going to die,” he told her.
“Shoot her!” Dylan yelled.
“No,” Eric replied. “We’re going to blow up the school anyway.”
Then something distracted him. He walked away and continued killing.
Bree looked back at Cassie’s table. The other girl, Emily, was on her knees now, still facing Cassie’s crumpled body, blood everywhere. She looked scared as hell.
How could she tell? an investigator asked Bree later.
The girl was biting her hands, she said.
Bree kept an eye on that girl. When the explosions moved out into the hallway, Bree figured the killers had gone, and she called out to the girl to come join her group. Emily couldn’t hear much, so Bree started waving her hands. Emily saw her, finally, and crawled over. She was not about to stand up. She sat next to Bree and leaned against some bookshelves. Time got blurry for Emily then. Later, she couldn’t recall how long she’d sat there.
Emily and Bree knew Cassie never got a chance to speak. They gave detailed accounts to investigators. Bree’s ran fifteen pages, single-spaced, but their police reports would remain sealed for a year and a half. The 911 tape proved conclusively that they were correct. Audio of the murders was played for families, but withheld from the public as too gruesome.
Emily and Bree waited for the truth to come out.
Emily Wyant was sad. She went to counseling every day. April 20 had been horrible, and now she was saddled with a moral dilemma. She did not want to hurt the Bernalls; nor did she want to embarrass herself by shattering Cassie’s myth. The whole thing had gotten so big so fast. But by keeping quiet, Emily felt she was contributing to a lie.
“She was in a tough position,” her mother, Cindie, said later. Emily had told the cops, but they were not sharing much with the media anymore. Definitely not that bombshell.
Emily wanted to go public. Her parents were afraid. The martyrdom had turned into a religious movement—taking that on could be risky. “She didn’t know the ramifications that could come afterwards,” Cindie said. “She was just thinking about ‘I want to tell the truth.’”
Her parents were torn, too. They wanted the truth to come out, but not at the expense of their daughter. Emily had already faced more than any child should. This might be too much. Don’t do anything drastic, her parents advised. “It’s a wonderful memory for [Cassie’s] family,” Cindie told her. “Let’s not aggravate anything.”
In early May, the phone rang. It was the Rocky Mountain News. Dan Luzadder was one of the best investigative reporters in the city, and he was sorting out exactly what happened in the library. They were tracking down all the library survivors, and most were cooperating. Emily’s parents were wary. Her situation was different.
The reporters showed the Wyants some of the maps and timelines they were building. The family was impressed. The team seemed conscientious, and their work was thorough and detailed. The family agreed to talk. Emily would tell her story, and the Rocky could quote her but not identify her by name. “We didn’t want her to be some national scoundrel,” Cindie said.
After the interview, Emily was glad she had participated. What a relief to get that off her chest. She waited for the story.