by Nina Monroe
She shakes her head. “Not really.”
“You think he’s got something to hide?”
“I don’t know.” Her throat goes so tight she feels she can’t breathe.
He puts his hand between her shoulder blades and rubs her back. “It’s okay, Katie. It’s okay.”
She takes a breath. “It’s just that he usually talks to me—when things are really bad. You know?”
“Things are more than really bad, Katie. None of us know how to handle this. He’s a kid. He’ll open up when he’s ready.”
“He wants to go to school tomorrow,” she says.
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
“Is that a good idea?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know, Ben. I don’t know about anything any more.”
They sit in silence again.
“What about you?” she asks. “What did they say—at the station?”
He looks down at his hands: the thick knuckles, the lines, the tanned skin.
“I’m not allowed to work, Katie.”
“What?”
“Not until the investigation’s over.”
He looks up at her, his eyes glassy. “I can’t be involved in law enforcement and be a suspect.”
“A suspect? But you weren’t even here when Astrid got shot.”
“Well, maybe that’s the problem. I should have been. Or maybe it’s that I arrived at just the wrong time. They’re still establishing a timeline of events. I don’t know. They’re not telling me anything.”
She swallows hard. “Why were you late, Ben?”
They haven’t had the chance to talk since the accident, not properly.
“There was a search and rescue—a couple got lost in the mountains with their kid—”
“We needed you here.”
It was a battle she’d fought when they lived in Texas and he worked a difficult border: persuading him not to put himself in danger, to remember that he had a family and that being there for them—alive and healthy—mattered more than his work.
“I was doing my job, Katie. I tried to call you but there was no reception—I was too far out.”
“And no one else could have done it? One of your colleagues?”
He takes her hand. “Come on, Katie, don’t do this.”
She pulls her hand out from under his. “It was a lot, you know—to manage on my own?”
“I told you that you should have kept the party smaller.”
She feel stung. “I wanted it to be special—for Bryar.”
“But it was too much. We can’t afford parties like this—we’re not that kind of people, Katie—”
Tears push up behind her eyes. “Why are you saying this now?”
“I was responding to what you said, Katie—about finding it too much to manage.” He reaches for her hand again but she folds her arms. “Come on, let’s not do this now. We’re both tired. We need to get some sleep.”
She looks past him, out across the barn. She feels their relationship splintering in a way it never has before. He’s right: it was stupid to hold such a big party. To invite so many people. To think that she could pull it off. But holding a party they couldn’t afford—getting carried away because she wanted to make things better for Bryar—those things aren’t crimes, are they?
It catches her eye again, the gun safe. She turns back to Ben. “The party wasn’t why Astrid got shot.”
He stares at her.
“The fact that Bryar got hold of that gun—” she goes on. “And the ammo.”
“What are you implying?”
“Bryar’s seen you open and close our safes a million times. And you know what he’s like. He’s good with numbers. He remembers everything.”
“He knew not to touch the safes. Not without me there.”
“But he did, didn’t he? Kids do stuff their parents don’t want them to do all the time. We should have been more careful—”
“If Bryar wanted to shoot Astrid—”
“If Bryar wanted to shoot Astrid?”
“I’m just saying that if a kid gets it in his mind to hurt another kid, they’ll find a way.”
“You actually think that Bryar did this?”
“No. I’m just saying—”
“Do you even know our son? He wouldn’t hurt anyone, Ben. Not intentionally.”
She’d felt it ever since Bryar was born. How she was somehow tuned into him in a way that Ben wasn’t. And now it was clearer than ever: when it came to their son, they were on different sides.
“It’s not about Bryar.” Her voice is cold and steady. “None of this is on him.”
They stare at each other, trying to find their footing again.
“We need to get some rest, Katie,” Ben says gently. “Come on, let’s go inside.”
She keeps staring at him. There are dark circles around his eyes. He came straight off his shift to the party. And then the hours of questioning at the station. He hasn’t slept in over twenty-four hours. He’s right, they need to get some rest. But she can’t let this go.
“We shouldn’t have had them in our home to begin with. The safes. The guns.” She gulps.
“Katie …?”
She stands up. “I don’t want us to have guns in our home any more.”
For a long time, he doesn’t say anything. He just stares at her, confused, like he doesn’t recognize her any more. And then, slowly, he shakes his head.
“You’re blaming me for what happened.”
“No—no. I didn’t say that.”
“It’s what you implied.”
“I’m saying that if we hadn’t had guns in the house, none of this would have happened.”
He stands up. “You are blaming me.”
He turns away and walks to the stable door.
“Ben—please,” she calls after him.
But he doesn’t turn around.
She hears him cross the yard and walk up the porch steps and into the house.
And she thinks of going after him—of trying to explain—but she knows she can’t. Because she meant it: she doesn’t want to see a firearm on their property ever again.
CHAPTER
19
10 p.m.
PRISCILLA CAN’T TAKE her eyes off Peter.
How many times has she wished for this moment? For him to rush back to her—to realize that he has a wife and a daughter that he loves.
And how many times had Astrid pleaded with her to find a way to get him to come home?
He’s not coming home. Just get used to it, okay! she’d yelled at Astrid once, unable to handle the weight of her grief for her father, coupled with her own.
“I’m sorry,” the lieutenant says. “Of course you can be here, Mr. Carver. My name’s Lieutenant Mesenberg. I’m heading up the investigation concerning your daughter’s shooting.”
Priscilla watches the words hit Peter. Words he never thought he’d hear: that his little girl has been hurt. Badly hurt. That she might not make it.
“In fact,” Lieutenant Mesenberg goes on, “I was saying to your wife that it would be good if I could ask you a few questions too.”
Priscilla waits for Peter to correct her. Ex-wife, isn’t that what she is now?
But he doesn’t say anything.
“He’s just flown in from California,” Priscilla says. “And he hasn’t seen Astrid yet. I’d appreciate it if you could give us a little privacy.”
The detective begins to pack up her things. “I’m sorry. Of course. I’ll come back later.”
“Maybe you can come back when you have some actual answers,” Priscilla throws back.
Peter steps toward Priscilla. His eyes are bloodshot. He’s struggling to take it in. The hospital. The fact that there’s a police detective here. That their eleven-year-old daughter has been shot.
The lieutenant pulls a card out of her pocket and hands it to Peter.
“Maybe once you’ve settled in, you could give me a call.”
Settled in? She makes it sound like he’s here on vacation.
Peter takes the card and puts it in the pocket of his chinos. “I will. Thank you, Lieutenant.”
The lieutenant turns to Priscilla. “Thank you for your time, Dr. Carver.” Then she hesitates. “If you think of anything else—”
“Anything else?”
“Maybe something that Astrid told you before she went to the party—something that might shed light on this situation.”
Priscilla digs her nails into her palms. Astrid doesn’t tell me things, she wants to say. And even if she did, it wouldn’t reveal anything. Astrid’s not to blame for any of this.
When Priscilla doesn’t answer, the lieutenant gives her a small nod.
“I’ll be in touch,” she says. And then she catches Peter’s eye, as if she’s decided that he’s the reasonable one, the one who might give her the information that she needs.
When Lieutenant Mesenberg has gone, Priscilla and Peter stand in the family room, a gulf of silence between them.
“Thank you for coming,” she says to him.
He steps toward her.
And then she starts crying. He hesitates for a second and then walks toward her and puts his arms around her.
She should push him away—let him know that he doesn’t have the right to do things like this any more, not after he walked out on her. But something inside her comes loose and her body falls into his chest.
He strokes the back of her head, like he used to. As they stand there leaning into each other, she wants him to keep holding her. Because it’s the first time in twenty-four hours—it’s the first time since the day he left, seven months ago—that she doesn’t feel completely alone.
But then she forces herself to remember why he’s here. That it’s not for her. That he’s come all this way because their little girl has been hurt.
She musters all the strength she has and pulls away from him.
“I’ll take you to Astrid’s room,” she says.
He nods.
And then she guides him out of the family room and down the hall, to the room where their little girl lies unconscious, tubes covering her small body, fighting for her life.
DAY THREE
Tuesday, September 3
The First Day of School
CHAPTER
20
8.15 a.m.
EVA WATCHES A news van with a satellite on its roof parking behind the yellow school bus. Her stomach churns. The cooler weather had eased the nausea but standing here, surrounded by kids and parents—and journalists—it’s come flooding back.
“What are they doing here?” Lily asks.
They’re here because Priscilla wants them to be here, Eva thinks. Will had all but said as much over breakfast: that Priscilla had the media contacts she needed to make a big story of this—that she’d make sure the shooting got national attention.
“They’re just trying to get a story,” Eva says.
“About us?” Lily asks.
“Yes.”
A woman with a video camera, a man with a microphone and a presenter walk toward the school yard. They have the creased look of people who’ve been travelling for hours—and the determined look of people who aren’t going to leave until they’ve got what they’ve come for: a good story.
Eva squeezes Lily’s hand. “It’s okay, they won’t be allowed into school.”
Not that she’d put it past them. The press has been crawling all over town. Local. National. Everyone wanting the lowdown on “the Playdate Shooting.” That’s what they’re calling it.
The police are no closer to finding a culprit. The children’s stories simply don’t add up, read the front-page article in yesterday’s Boston Chronicle. Meanwhile Astrid Carver is fighting for her life at Colebrook Hospital.
Without a clear conclusion to the investigation, the press was weaving its own narrative:
Children left unsupervised.
A gun at a party.
A child with a motive.
And a cover-up.
They made it sound like one of the kids had shot Astrid on purpose.
Yesterday afternoon, Eva and Will took Lily to the Children’s Advocacy Center, where the kids were questioned again. The only ones she didn’t see were Hanif and Laila, the twins. There was a lawyer throwing his weight around, saying that he was representing the Sayeds. She’d wondered whether maybe they should get a lawyer too, for Lily, but Will said that it was best to cooperate with the police.
All Lily has to do is tell them the truth, he’d said. It’s not like she’d have fired the gun.
Eva didn’t believe that Lily had shot Astrid, not for a second. But she’d worked long enough with children to know that they shouldn’t be underestimated. If Lily was keeping quiet, there was a reason for it.
She wishes Will were here, but he’s covering for Priscilla at the law school. It’s his way of making it up to her: that his wife brought their daughter to the party where her daughter got shot. Worse: that the party had been her idea.
“Why are they so interested in us?” Lily asks, staring at one of the cameramen setting up.
“People find it exciting to read about bad things happening to other people,” Eva says.
“They do?”
“Yes, sadly, they do. Especially when children are involved.”
And guns, she thinks. Children and guns—what journalist wouldn’t jump on that story?
“I wish they’d leave us alone,” Lily says. She stares wide-eyed at the group of journalists camped outside the school gates.
“I’m sure they’ll move on to another story soon, my love,” Eva says.
But Eva knows that they’re not going anywhere. Not the press or the police. Not until they get to the bottom of what happened on Sunday afternoon.
More children and parents pour into the school yard.
There are tables with coffee and doughnuts and sign-up sheets for the PTA.
Teachers are buzzing around, welcoming parents and kids, pretending that this is just another beginning of term.
Mums are taking photographs of their kids by the sign for Brook Middle School.
Before this happened, Eva had planned to bring flyers with her to advertise her music therapy lessons: the first day back at school was the perfect time to get parents to sign their kids up. But with everything going on, she’d decided to leave them at home.
She feels dizzy at the noise and people.
Lily shrinks beside her.
“It’s okay to change your mind about starting school today,” Eva says. “We can go home. Give it a few more days.”
The truth is that it’s Eva who’s beginning to change her mind. Maybe it would have been better to have kept Lily home until the dust settles.
“I promised Bryar I’d be here,” Lily says.
That was something else Eva knew about kids. How loyal they could be. To each other. To anyone they loved—no matter what those people had done.
After the police interviews, yesterday, while Eva and Priscilla talked, Bryar and Lily went off to get a snack from the vending machine. On the way home, Lily announced that she wanted to go to school the next day. That she and Bryar had decided they were going to face it together.
Eva crouches down so that she’s level with Lily.
“You don’t have to do anything, Lily. Bryar would understand.”
“We have to show them, Mum.”
“Show who?”
“Everyone.” She looks around at the children and their parents and the journalists. “We have to show them that it’s not Bryar’s fault.” Her tired eyes fill with tears.
“Oh, Lily. That’s not your job—”
Lily sniffs. “If we come to school, they’ll stop talking.”
Eva knows it’s not that simple, but she doesn’t say anything.
“Okay. But remember to tell your teachers if you’re struggling, and I’ll come right away and get you.”
Last night,
they’d received an e-mail from Mrs. Markham. Words of reassurance. The teachers had been briefed about the sensitivity of the situation. She’d given out the number of the school counselor in case any of the children needed support.
Lily’s trying to be brave. But from the way she’s staring at the playground filled with kids and parents and teachers—and from the way she’s gripping Eva’s hand—Eva knows that her little girl is hanging on by a thread.
She’s scared. They all are.
Scared that Astrid might not wake up.
And scared about what’s going to happen when the police find out who shot her.
Eva notices Yasmin and Ayaan Sayed walking the twins over to Mrs. Markham. Eva tries to catch Yasmin’s eye but her head’s down.
When Avery turns up with Abi and Cal, Eva hears a couple of mothers whispering behind her. They were some of the first parents here. Their daughters are the ones sitting on the bench with the new dresses.
“Reverend Avery shouldn’t be allowed to bring kids like that into Middlebrook,” one of the mothers says. “It’s asking for trouble.”
The ambivalence Eva felt, a second ago, about being here, is replaced by a rush of anger.
“I suppose they brought the gun with them from Roxbury,” the second mother replies.
Eva’s so angry, now, that even the nausea disappears.
Lily looks up at her, wide-eyed. “What are they talking about, Mum?”
“It’s nothing, Lily. They don’t know what they’re saying.”
“They shouldn’t be allowed to mix with our kids,” the first mom says.
“I thought that at least she’d keep them away from school—they could be a danger to our kids,” the second mom says.
That’s it.
Eva lets go of Lily’s hand, spins round and walks toward the mothers.
Lily follows her. “Mum—where are you going?”
Eva stops right in front of the two mothers.
“They’re children,” Eva says, looking from one woman to the other. “Yes, they’ve had a tough start to life, which means that they need our support.” Her body is shaking but she keeps going. “And they haven’t been charged with anything. None of the children have.”
The women stare at Eva. She recognizes, now, that one of them stopped her at the library a couple of weeks back to ask about music therapy lessons for her son.
