😢 “If I Don’t Get Her, You Don’t Either” — ⚖️💔 Months Before the Vegas Tragedy, Addi’s Mother Told a Judge

The tragic murder-suicide involving 11-year-old cheerleader Addi Smith and her mother, Tawnia McGeehan, has sent shockwaves through communities in Utah and beyond. What was meant to be a joyful weekend at a national cheer competition in Las Vegas ended in unimaginable horror on February 15, 2026, when the pair was found dead in their room at the Rio Hotel & Casino. Police have classified the incident as a murder-suicide: McGeehan allegedly shot her daughter before turning the gun on herself.

Court records reveal a bitter, nine-year custody battle that began after the 2015 divorce of McGeehan and Addi’s father, Bradley Smith. The dispute escalated repeatedly, with accusations of parental alienation, domestic abuse in the child’s presence, and strict court-imposed rules for handovers—including parking five spaces apart so Addi could walk between cars alone to avoid direct parental contact. In one heated courtroom moment during the prolonged conflict, McGeehan reportedly yelled at her ex-husband: “If I don’t get her, then you don’t get her either.” Those chilling words, echoed in accounts from family and legal observers familiar with the case, now haunt the aftermath, raising haunting questions about motive, mental health, and the failures of a system designed to protect children.

Addi Smith was a bright, energetic 11-year-old from West Jordan, Utah, known for her infectious smile, athleticism, and passion for cheerleading. She was a dedicated member of the Utah Xtreme Cheer team, where she spent countless hours perfecting routines, tumbling, and building friendships. Teammates described her as “beyond loved,” a girl who lit up the gym with her enthusiasm and backflips. Her family—including her father, Bradley Smith, and stepmother, McKennly Smith—often shared proud posts of her achievements on social media. Addi was not just a competitor; she was a symbol of joy in a sport that demands discipline and teamwork.

The weekend trip to Las Vegas was supposed to be a highlight. The Utah Xtreme Cheer squad traveled for a major competition, with Addi and her mother checking into the Rio Hotel & Casino, an off-Strip property known for its affordable rooms and convention facilities. The event promised excitement: bright lights, loud music, and the thrill of performing on a national stage. But Addi never took the floor.

On the morning of February 15, the team noticed the mother-daughter duo was absent. Concern grew quickly. The Utah Xtreme Cheer organization posted a desperate missing persons alert on Facebook, pleading for information. McKennly Smith, Addi’s stepmother, amplified the call, sharing flyers and updates in a haunting plea that would later go viral: photos of Addi’s smiling face juxtaposed with urgent text begging anyone with leads to come forward.

Las Vegas Metropolitan Police (LVMPD) received a welfare check request around 10:45 a.m. Officers knocked on the hotel room door but received no response. With no immediate signs of distress— no forced entry, no visible struggle—they left after documenting the visit. Hours passed. Family and friends continued pressing hotel staff. Finally, around 2:27 p.m., security entered the room and discovered the bodies. Both had been shot. A note was found at the scene, though authorities have not released its contents publicly. The Clark County Coroner’s Office later confirmed the identities: Tawnia McGeehan, 38 (some reports list her age as 34), and Addilyn “Addi” Smith, 11.

The LVMPD homicide unit took over, quickly ruling it a murder-suicide. Investigators believe McGeehan shot Addi sometime late Saturday night or early Sunday morning, then took her own life. The weapon was recovered in the room. No other individuals were involved, and there were no signs of a struggle beyond the immediate tragedy.

The custody battle provides the grim backdrop to this horror. Bradley and Tawnia McGeehan divorced in 2015, shortly after Addi’s birth. Initial decrees granted McGeehan primary physical custody, with Bradley receiving joint legal rights and visitation. But tensions never eased. By 2020, a temporary order shifted sole physical custody to Bradley after a judge cited concerns: McGeehan had allegedly engaged in “behavior on the spectrum of parental alienation” and committed domestic abuse in Addi’s presence. The ruling emphasized the child’s best interest, temporarily removing her from her mother’s primary care.

McGeehan fought back. In 2021, she sought a restraining order, alleging violations during exchanges—claims that included accusations against the stepmother for recording handovers. The back-and-forth continued, with court filings piling up over child support, school choices, and parenting decisions. Judges imposed micromanaged protocols: emails first for communication, mediation next, court only as a last resort. Handovers were choreographed to minimize contact—five parking spaces apart at school drop-offs, Addi walking alone between vehicles.

By May 2024, the parties reached a fragile agreement: joint legal and physical custody on a week-on, week-off schedule. McGeehan retained significant decision-making authority as the original petitioner, though Bradley could challenge choices in court. On paper, it was resolution. In reality, the wounds ran deep. Family members and those close to the case describe a toxic co-parenting dynamic, with ongoing resentment and control issues. The courtroom outburst—”If I don’t get her, then you don’t get her either”—captures the raw emotion that festered for nearly a decade. Whether spoken in a specific hearing or amid escalating arguments, it now feels prophetic, a dark foreshadowing of the ultimate act of possession and destruction.

The cheer community in Utah is reeling. Utah Xtreme Cheer issued a heartbroken statement: “We are completely heartbroken. No words do the situation justice. She was so beyond loved, and she will always be a part of the UXC family.” Practices paused. Tributes flooded social media—videos of Addi tumbling, photos of her in uniform, messages from teammates vowing to honor her memory. On platforms like TikTok and Reddit (r/Utah, r/TrueCrimeDiscussion), users shared grief, outrage, and calls for reform. Threads dissected the custody records, questioning why joint custody was reinstated despite red flags.

Broader reactions highlight systemic concerns. Many point to the failures of family courts in high-conflict divorces. Parental alienation claims, mental health evaluations, and domestic violence allegations often drag on for years, leaving children caught in the crossfire. Advocates argue for better mental health screenings, mandatory counseling, and swifter interventions when alienation or abuse is alleged. Others express sympathy for McGeehan’s possible undiagnosed struggles—depression, anxiety, or desperation amid perceived loss of control—while emphasizing that no circumstance justifies harming a child.

Addi’s stepmother’s plea before the discovery has become particularly poignant. McKennly Smith’s Facebook posts, once hopeful searches, now stand as tragic artifacts: a mother’s frantic love frozen in time, hours before the worst news arrived. The Salem Police Department, where Addi’s uncle serves as a sergeant, offered support: “We are coming together as a department to support Sergeant Smith and his family during this unimaginable time.”

As of February 18, 2026, the investigation continues. LVMPD has not released the suicide note or autopsy details beyond cause of death. No new charges or suspects exist; the case appears closed as a murder-suicide. But the questions linger: Could earlier red flags have been heeded? Did the custody system prioritize parental rights over child safety? And how many other families teeter on similar edges, hidden behind polite court filings?

Addi Smith’s life was cut short in the cruelest way—by the person meant to protect her most. Her story is a stark reminder of the human cost when love twists into obsession, when battles for custody become wars of attrition, and when mental health cries go unheard. In the cheer gym where she once soared, her absence echoes. Teammates will tumble in her honor, but the void remains. Rest in peace, Addi. May your memory drive change, so no other child pays the ultimate price for adult pain.