The Children's Secret

by Nina Monroe

  Slowly, Cal stands up. “But you didn’t defend us, did you?” He turns to go.

  Avery stands up. “Please, Cal. I blame myself. I shouldn’t have taken you to the party. And I shouldn’t have talked to the reporter. I don’t blame you—or Abi. Not one bit.”

  But Cal’s already walked out of the kitchen. The front door bangs. Through the kitchen window, she sees him making his way to the woods.

  She comes and sits back down in front of Abi.

  Her phone buzzes again. Another message from Bill.

  Abi looks down at Avery’s phone. “I guess you’re going to get rid of us now.” Her voice is flat.

  “No—of course not.”

  “Bill won’t let us stay.”

  “I’ll fight for you. You know that. You belong here, Abi. You and Cal. You guys have done so well—we can’t give up now.”

  “But you think we might have done it, right?”

  Avery’s shoulders drop.

  “Right?” Abi says.

  “I think it was an accident, Abi. A terrible, terrible accident—”

  “An accident that was our fault.”

  For a while, Avery goes quiet. Then she looks up. “Why don’t you tell me what really happened, Abi? Then I can help you. You know you can trust me—”

  Abi laughs and stands up. “Trust you?”

  “Of course.”

  Abi shakes her head.

  “Please, Abi.” Avery reaches out and tries to catch Abi’s hand.

  “I’m going to see if Cal’s okay.”

  “But—”

  Abi turns and runs out of the kitchen.

  Avery slumps over the table and puts her head in her hands.

  The truth is, she doesn’t know whether or not Abi or Cal fired that gun. Were they capable of it? Probably. Did they have a reason to shoot Astrid Carver? Not that she can think of—except that Astrid has a way of winding other kids up. No. She doesn’t know for sure that they didn’t do it. That’s why she couldn’t tell the reporter, right out, that they weren’t to blame. But she does know this: that she wants them to stay. That hasn’t changed. And she’s going to fight to keep them, no matter what they did.

  CHAPTER

  26

  9 p.m.

  “IT WOULD BE a shame to cancel—she’s been doing so well.” Eva sighs down the phone. “Okay … well, get in touch if you change your mind.”

  She ends the call and slumps into a chair at the kitchen table.

  Will looks up from his computer. “Who was that?”

  “Another family’s cancelled.”

  It’s been less than forty-eight hours since the party and already three mums have called, making excuses for why their kids can’t have music lessons with Eva.

  When they decided to move here from London, Eva had thought it would take a miracle for her to keep working as a music therapist—surely demand would be limited in a town as small as Middlebrook. But she’d underestimated the power of word of mouth. Kaitlin, in particular, had shared with other families how Eva had managed to get through to Bryar. Except that was the problem, wasn’t it? No one wanted to be associated with Kaitlin Wright, not after Astrid got shot—and not being associated with Kaitlin meant not being associated with Eva either.

  “They’ll come around,” Will says.

  “Come around?”

  “They’ll realize that you’re not to blame for any of this. Just give it some time.”

  She swallows hard. He doesn’t know that the party was her idea. And that she’d gone out of her way to persuade people to go. And he doesn’t seem to have registered that Lily—their daughter—was right there when Astrid got shot: that she’s one of the suspects.

  Will shuts his laptop and picks up a bottle of wine from the counter. He goes to pour Eva a glass but she puts her hand over the rim.

  “Not for me, thanks.”

  He raises his eyebrows. “Really?”

  “Really.”

  She wants to tell him about the baby—that this is the longest a pregnancy has lasted since she had Lily. That after ten years of waiting, they might finally get a chance to be parents again. But with everything that’s going on, it never feels like the right time.

  He sits down in front of her and pours himself a glass of wine.” He leafs through today’s paper. They’d both seen it: how Priscilla had made that Facebook page with the kids’ photos. And there was the article about Avery’s foster kids. They made it sound like Avery thought Abi or Cal might have shot Astrid.

  Eva doesn’t know what to think. The kids’ stories aren’t adding up. None of them are coming out with anything concrete. Maybe it was Abi Johnston. Eva hates herself for thinking it, but part of her would be glad if it did turn out to be her. It would be easier. A girl who grew up around violence—it would make sense to people. Then they’d stop blaming Bryar and his family. And her and Lily. Then maybe this horrible witch hunt would end.

  Her phone buzzes. It’s a message from Kaitlin.

  See you at the meeting?

  Detective Mesenberg has called a town meeting at the library for tomorrow morning. To address the community’s concerns, she’d said.

  Even she must be surprised that her small-town investigation had made national headlines. But then, with Priscilla Wright involved, this was never going to be a small investigation.

  She texts back, Yes. See you there.

  Then she adds, Hope you’re doing okay.

  “Who was that?” Will asks.

  “Kaitlin.”

  “Oh.” Will looks down at his glass.

  They sit in silence. Things have been awkward between them since the party.

  Will takes a sip of wine and then puts down his glass. “Look, Eva. I’ve been thinking.”

  She feels her body squirm. “Okay.”

  “I know you’re trying to be a friend to Kaitlin.” She waits for him to go on.

  “But …” He pauses. “Is it wise?”

  “Wise?”

  “All I’m saying is that maybe you should take a bit of distance. Maybe that’s why those families are cancelling.”

  “Those families are cancelling because they’re idiots, Will.”

  “Come on, Eva, you know better than that.”

  “Do I?”

  “They’re scared. When something happens to a kid, people worry—”

  “They’re not scared. They’re self-righteous, like Priscilla. They think that by scapegoating Kaitlin and her family—and by blaming the parents and kids who went to the party—it somehow makes them superior.”

  “But Priscilla was right, wasn’t she?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “She was right to warn people off.”

  “It was an accident, Will.”

  “We don’t know that, not yet.”

  “I know that.”

  They sit in silence for a bit. Eva looks out of the kitchen window at the dark night.

  “Do you?” he asks after a while.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Do you really know what Bryar Wright is capable of? You said it yourself—he’s got issues.”

  “All the kids I teach have got issues; that doesn’t make them capable of shooting their friends.”

  “But Astrid wasn’t Bryar’s friend, was she?”

  “Come on, Will.”

  “Come on, what? I don’t think you’re taking this seriously enough.”

  “Oh, I’m taking it seriously. I just don’t believe in blaming kids for getting caught up in something that was way out of their control.”

  “American children are different.”

  “Different?”

  “They grow up around guns. Bryar would have seen his dad handling firearms. Priscilla understood that it was dangerous—that’s why she warned everyone.” He pauses. “That’s why she warned us. Put yourself in her place, Eva. She’s the one who brought us over here from England—who persuaded the board to hire a new professor. And then you explicitly i
gnored her advice—”

  “No one gets to decide who I’m friends with—or who our daughter is friends with.”

  “That’s not what I’m saying.”

  “Do you have any idea how hard it’s been? Getting used to living here in this God-ugly bungalow, trying to make friends for me and for Lily, rebuilding my business—rebuilding our whole lives in a new place?”

  “I know it’s been hard, Eva. I don’t take any of that for granted.” His voice softens. “This has just put us in an awkward position. Maybe you could apologize to her—”

  “Apologize? For what, exactly?”

  “For having gone against her advice. You could tell her it was an error of judgment—because you’re new here.”

  A ball of anger pushes up Eva’s throat. Like any couple, they’ve had their share of arguments, but Will’s never patronized her like this before.

  “It wasn’t an error of judgment, Will.”

  He takes another sip of wine and then puts down the glass and looks at her. “What was it, then?”

  The anger pushes back up Eva’s throat and this time she can’t stop it from coming out.

  “I went to the party because Kaitlin invited us. And because I wanted to support her. And because Lily and Bryar are friends.” She pauses. “I went to the party because it was my idea.”

  He looks at her, stunned. “What?”

  “I suggested Kaitlin get together a few kids before school started, so he’d feel more comfortable.” She pauses. “Kaitlin got a bit carried away.”

  For a while, he doesn’t say anything, as if waiting for his mind to recalibrate this new piece of information: that not only did his wife take their daughter to a party where his boss’s daughter got shot but, if it hadn’t been for his wife, there wouldn’t have been a party to begin with.

  He puts his head in his hands. “Christ, Eva. Do you always have to—”

  “Have to what?”

  He looks up. “Save the fucking world!”

  She stares at him, hard. And then, as calmly as she can manage, she says, “I wasn’t trying to save the world. I was trying to help a friend. There was a time, Will, when you believed that standing up for people who were having shit thrown at them for no reason was the right thing to do. What’s changed?”

  He shakes his head.

  “What?”

  “I don’t want to argue with you.”

  “It’s a bit late for that, don’t you think?”

  “Look, I know you don’t mean any harm—”

  “Harm?”

  “Priscilla warned you. This isn’t England. People have guns in their houses. And she’s right: it’s bloody dangerous.” He tops up his wine. “And you didn’t listen.”

  “So, it’s my fault that Astrid got shot—that’s what you’re saying?”

  “No. Of course not. I’m just saying that you’ve put us right in the middle of a hugely sensitive situation and we need to make sure that Priscilla feels our support. She has to know that we’re on her side.”

  Eva looks at Will and blinks. She’s always been amazed at how quickly love can seep away when you’re having an argument. How the person you thought you knew—the person you loved, the person you had a child with—can suddenly look like a total stranger.

  “It’s not about sides.”

  “You’re doing it again.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Being fucking naïve. There are sides, Eva. And right now, you’re on the wrong one.”

  * * *

  When he’s gone, Eva stands up. Her body is shaking.

  She walks over to the open window and tries to swallow some air but it’s so humid it makes her feel worse. She thought that the storm might have cooled things down a bit, but it’s as bad than ever.

  At the bottom of the drive, the brook rushes past, swollen with rainwater.

  Then she looks out across town. In England, it stays light so much longer. It’s barely gone nine and already, it’s dark. Squares of light shine out from the houses. Across the road, Ayaan’s car is missing again from in front of the Sayeds’ house. At the far end of the front garden, she thinks she sees Yasmin walking through the dark maples.

  Eva imagines the fault lines running through Middlebrook.

  Will’s right, people are taking sides.

  And that’s exactly why she can’t stay out of things. Because if she does, those fault lines are just going to get bigger.

  DAY FOUR

  Wednesday, September 4

  CHAPTER

  27

  8.30 a.m.

  KAITLIN TURNS OUT of the driveway and switches on the car radio.

  “And now we have a special guest on the program. Dr. Harriet Glazner, a child psychiatrist from Johns Hopkins who has spent ten years studying the psychology of child shooters. Dr. Glazner is going to give us an insight into what it takes for a child to aim a gun—and pull the trigger—on his peers …”

  It takes Kaitlin’s brain a moment to register what they’re talking about. She loves the radio. She has it on all the time: when she’s driving or mucking out the horses or cooking or taking a bath. The voices of the presenters feel as familiar as friends. She’s always loved these special reports by Amy Sandborne: how she goes deep into the subjects. How she’s uncompromising about digging down to the truth of things.

  “Dr. Glazner is going to give us her professional take on what she thinks happened in Middlebrook, New Hampshire, when an eleven-year-old girl was critically injured at a children’s party …”

  Kaitlin swerves the car to the side of the road and stalls.

  Lieutenant Mesenberg’s words come back to her. She’d dropped by last night to take another look at the stable. I’d recommend you stay away from the news. For some reason the story’s caught national attention.

  Media speculation is getting a bit out of hand … she’d added. You might find it upsetting.

  As if anything could be any more upsetting than it was already, Kaitlin wanted to say.

  But now this. This was worse. It felt like the radio station she relied on to teach her about the world—to keep her company on those long nights when Ben was out working the border—was attacking her.

  Turn it off! her brain warns her. But she can’t. She has to know what they’re saying because everyone will be listening—and they’ll believe what they hear, just like she’s always done.

  “You wrote an article for the New York Times in the wake of the Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School shooting: The Profile of a Shooter …” Amy Sandborne goes on. “Your research gives us an insight into the type of kid who’s likely to do this … to turn violent—to shoot his friends?”

  “Yes.”

  “Could you share those findings with us now?”

  Kaitlin closes her eyes.

  The type of kid. How many times has she clenched her fists when she’d heard those words. She doesn’t care what this doctor says or how many letters she has after her name: there’s no such thing as a type of kid. Kids are all different. And some of them do bad things and sometimes there are reasons for why they do those things—but you can’t lump them in categories. And you can’t just look at them and predict which ones are going to kill their friends.

  “It’s common for a child shooter to be lonely … to have few, if any, friends … to have obsessive tendencies … to prefer spending time alone, inside, rather than socializing with others,” Dr. Glazner explains.

  “It’s been said that the boy whose party it was might match this description. Any thoughts?” Amy Sandborne asks.

  Kaitlin feels like she’s been punched in the stomach.

  “We don’t yet know who shot the girl,” Dr. Glazner says.

  “No—but people are speculating. And it’s clear that one child stands out.”

  Bile pushes up Kaitlin’s throat. They can’t do this. Not when millions of people are listening.

  “I understand that the boy who had access to the firearm had some social problems,
yes …” Amy Sandborne prompts. “Might these kinds of problems have predisposed him to this kind of violence?”

  Kaitlin leans back in the car seat and screws her eyes shut. How dare they speculate about Bryar like this? How dare they pass judgment on him? They haven’t got a clue who her son is.

  Damn the party.

  Damn those stupid guns that Ben keeps in the house.

  Damn all of it.

  “Now, there’s been a lot of discussion about the role of the parents in all this. Is there a particular parent profile we should be looking for when trying to identify potential shooters?”

  Kaitlin’s stomach clenches.

  “Well, the children are often troubled. They might be on the spectrum. Have learning difficulties or difficulties adapting socially. It’s hard to parent kids like that. Many parents will fall into the pattern of ignoring what’s going on.” She pauses. “Oftentimes, in the aftermath of a shooting, the parents of the shooter will say that they hadn’t spotted the signs, that they didn’t think in a million years that their child would be capable of something like this.”

  Kaitlin snaps off the radio.

  She winds down the window to get some air. Then she looks down the road to the town. She doesn’t know if she can face it: walking into a room full of people she knows, people who will be judging her and her family—her son—for what happened. Maybe she should turn around and go home and lock the door behind her.

  But then she hears the sound of a car engine. She glances in the rearview mirror. It’s Priscilla’s white Audi—the only car like it in town. And it’s pulling up so close that she can see Priscilla sitting in the passenger seat, Peter driving.

  Kaitlin scoots down in her seat, hoping that Priscilla won’t see her. But then she realizes how stupid she’s being: if she recognized Priscilla’s car, then Priscilla’s going to recognize Kaitlin’s beaten-up Jeep too.

  And then it happens. Peter slows down to overtake. And Priscilla looks to the side and locks eyes with Kaitlin. Through the open window, Kaitlin hears the low hum of voices coming from the speakers in their car. They’re listening to the radio; the same station as she was. She could recognize the presenter’s voice from a mile away.