Haunting Cry for Help: Stepmom’s Desperate Facebook Plea Before Utah Cheerleader’s Tragic End in Vegas Murder-Suicide

In the glittering chaos of Las Vegas, where fortunes rise and fall with the spin of a wheel, a family’s worst nightmare unfolded in the shadows of a hotel room. On February 15, 2026, 11-year-old Addi Smith—a vibrant Utah cheerleader with dreams as big as her infectious smile—was found dead alongside her mother, Tawnia McGeehan, 38, in an apparent murder-suicide at the Rio Hotel & Casino. But hours before the grim discovery, Addi’s stepmother, McKennly Smith, had issued a chilling plea on Facebook that now haunts the hearts of thousands: “My daughter Addi and her mom [are] missing please share post and call or text with any information thank you!” Accompanied by a hastily created missing persons poster featuring beaming photos of Addi and McGeehan, the post listed their last known location as the New York New York Hotel—a detail that would soon unravel into tragedy just miles away.

The plea, posted amid growing panic from Addi’s cheer team and family, captured the raw desperation of a stepmom thrust into a parental role amid years of fractured family dynamics. McKennly’s words, simple yet piercing, spread like wildfire across social media, shared by friends, coaches, and strangers alike. Little did she know that by the time her post gained traction, the unthinkable had already occurred. As details emerge from police reports, court documents, and heartbroken tributes, this story reveals not just a sudden act of violence, but a slow-burning crisis fueled by a bitter nine-year custody battle that left scars on everyone involved. Addi’s life, full of flips, cheers, and unbridled joy, was cut short in a moment of despair, leaving a community to grapple with questions that may never find answers.

Addi Smith was the epitome of youthful exuberance. At just 11, she had already carved out a place in the competitive cheer world, tumbling and stunting with Utah Xtreme Cheer (UXC), a program known for its high-energy routines and close-knit bonds. Teammates remember her as the girl who lit up the mat—her ponytail bouncing, her cheers echoing, her kindness wrapping around everyone like a warm hug. “Addi was a very kind and loving kid,” former coach Emily Morgan told reporters, her voice thick with emotion. “She was the kind of kid that everybody loved.” Photos from practices show her mid-air, executing perfect backflips, her face a mask of determination and delight. Beyond cheer, Addi participated in the Utah Cinderella Pageant, where her “bright smile and kindness” earned her admirers. She dreamed big: perhaps a future in veterinary medicine, or turning her passion for animals and performance into something extraordinary.

The weekend in Vegas was supposed to be a highlight—a major cheer competition that drew teams from across the West. McGeehan, Addi’s devoted mother and a fixture at practices, had booked the trip as a chance for bonding and triumph. They checked into the Rio Hotel & Casino, a sprawling resort off the Strip known for its affordable suites and vibrant atmosphere. But Saturday night, February 14—Valentine’s Day, a date now etched in irony—turned deadly. Investigators believe McGeehan, overwhelmed by unseen demons, shot her daughter before taking her own life. A suicide note was left behind, its contents shielded from the public but described by police as providing insight into her final mindset. Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department (LVMPD) Homicide Lieutenant Robert Price confirmed in a somber briefing: “Preliminary evidence points to the mother shooting her daughter before taking her own life.”

The alarm bells rang early Sunday morning when Addi failed to join her teammates for warm-ups. Coaches, sensing something amiss, created and circulated a missing persons flyer on social media. “We haven’t been able to get in contact with her or her mother,” the post read, urgency palpable in every word. Family members, including Addi’s father Brad Smith and stepmother McKennly, bombarded authorities with calls. McKennly’s Facebook plea, posted around the same time, amplified the fear: a collage of photos showing Addi in her cheer uniform, McGeehan smiling beside her, with pleas to “share post and call or text.” The poster erroneously listed the New York New York Hotel—perhaps a mix-up in the chaos—but the intent was clear: find them, fast.

Police responded to the Rio room at approximately 10:45 a.m., knocking but receiving no answer. With no immediate signs of distress—curtains drawn, no cries for help—they departed without forcing entry, a decision that has since sparked heated debate. “Why didn’t they go in?” one anonymous family friend questioned in media interviews. “Every second counted.” Family persisted, urging hotel security and police to return. Nearly four hours later, around 2:30 p.m., security finally entered the room. The scene was devastating: mother and daughter lifeless, gunshot wounds telling a story of irreversible despair. The delay, while following protocol, has left loved ones wondering if intervention could have changed the outcome—though experts note that the act likely occurred the night before.

At the core of this tragedy lies a custody battle that stretched back to 2015, when McGeehan and Brad Smith divorced after a tumultuous marriage. Court documents, unearthed by investigative outlets, paint a picture of high-conflict co-parenting that eroded trust and amplified tensions. McGeehan, as the primary custodian, held sway over major decisions—schooling, medical care, extracurriculars like cheer—while Smith fought for more involvement. By 2024, the court had imposed stringent rules to minimize friction: during school weeks, handovers occurred in parking lots with vehicles spaced at least five apart, Addi walking alone between them. On weekends or holidays, exchanges happened outside the Herriman Police Department at exactly 9 a.m., under police supervision to prevent escalations.

No filming was allowed during these moments—a clause likely stemming from past disputes where emotions boiled over into recorded confrontations. Communication was restricted to the Family Wizard app, a court-approved platform for logging schedules, appointments, and updates. Emergencies warranted texts, but disputes followed a hierarchy: email first, then consultation with neutral parties like Addi’s teachers or therapist, and only then mediation or court if unresolved. Parents were barred from attending the same events, forcing them to alternate at cheer meets or school functions—a heartbreaking divide that meant one parent always missed out on Addi’s milestones.

Sources close to the family suggest the battle took a heavy toll. McGeehan, described as a dedicated “dance mom,” reportedly felt the strain of single parenthood amid legal fees and emotional warfare. Smith, now married to McKennly, pushed for equal time, but the system often prioritized stability. “These cases can break people,” says family law expert Dr. Laura Markham. “When custody feels like a zero-sum game, desperation sets in.” Whispers of alienation—claims that one parent poisoned Addi against the other—surfaced in filings, though unsubstantiated publicly. McKennly, stepping into the role of bonus mom, navigated the complexities with grace, often posting loving tributes to Addi on social media. Her plea, now viewed as a haunting foreshadowing, underscores the blended family’s love amid the chaos.

The cheer community, a world of sequins, stunts, and sisterhood, has been shattered. Utah Xtreme Cheer’s tribute captured the raw pain: “With the heaviest hearts, we share the devastating news that our sweet athlete Addi has passed away. 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.” Teammates returned home traumatized, practices canceled as counselors stepped in. Utah Fusion All-Stars, where Addi had also competed, mourned: “She was absolutely loved in our gym… her sweet smile and light that she brought to her teams.” Vigils in West Jordan saw blue ribbons—Addi’s favorite color—tied around trees, candles flickering as stories flowed: Addi’s encouragement during tough routines, her giggles in the locker room, her unwavering positivity.

Neighbors in the quiet West Jordan suburb recall everyday joys: Addi biking with friends, McGeehan cheering from the sidelines. “They seemed so normal,” one told local news. “This doesn’t happen here.” But beneath the surface, the custody strain simmered. Brad Smith, devastated, has remained private, but friends say the loss of his only child is incomprehensible. McKennly’s plea, now a digital memorial, draws comments of sympathy and outrage: “How could this happen?” “Prayers for the family.” Social media amplifies the grief, with hashtags like #JusticeForAddi trending alongside calls for custody reform.

This incident thrusts a spotlight on the perils of prolonged family disputes. According to the National Center for State Courts, high-conflict custodies affect over a million children annually, often leading to mental health crises. Advocates urge mandatory psychological evaluations, better mediation, and early warning systems for at-risk parents. “We need to see the signs,” says Ramirez. Mental health resources—988 Lifeline, SafeUT—have been promoted relentlessly, a silver lining in the darkness.

As February 18, 2026, dawns, the investigation presses on. The suicide note’s secrets may offer clues, but closure feels elusive. Addi’s legacy? A reminder to cherish the light in every child, to bridge divides before they destroy. In Vegas, the lights burn bright, but for one family, the world is forever dimmed. McKennly’s plea echoes: a cry that came too late, but one that demands we listen harder next time.