by Nina Monroe
CHAPTER
31
7 a.m.
FROM THE SECOND Mom comes into their room, Hanif and Laila know that something’s up.
She’s wearing sweatpants and a baggy sweatshirt; her hair is tied up in a messy bun at the back of her head and without make-up on her face looks like it’s fading away.
And when they ask if they can wear jeans and sneakers to school, like the other middle schoolers, she doesn’t fight them.
And when they get downstairs, she hands each of them a granola bar, saying there isn’t time for breakfast. Mom always goes on about them having a proper breakfast to start their day right.
And she gives them lunch money instead of their lunchboxes. Then she ushers them outside. “Your dad will be here in a minute.”
“Dad’s taking us to school?” Laila asks.
“No,” she says. “You’re not going to school this morning.”
The twins’ eyes go wide. “We’re not going to school?” She doesn’t answer.
Dad swerves into the driveway.
The twins stare at him through the windscreen. His hair’s sticking up, like on the days when he hasn’t had time to shower before heading out to the site. His mouth’s set in a tight, thin line.
Hanif and Laila inch closer to Mom.
“Is this because of what happened on Sunday?” Laila asks.
Before she has the time to answer, Dad’s pulled up beside them. He winds down the window and says, “Get in, quick.”
Mom goes to stand by Dad’s window. “Are you sure this is a good idea, Ayaan?”
She whispers it, but they hear her anyway.
He turns on the ignition without answering. Mom steps back from the car.
“Buckle up,” he calls over his shoulder and pulls the car out onto Main Street, leaving Mom standing alone in the middle of the driveway.
* * *
As they drive through Middlebrook, the twins see them—the children who were there on Sunday afternoon, like they were.
Across the road from their house, the twins watch as Lily puts on her helmet and her backpack and climbs onto her bicycle. She’s probably going to Bryar’s house so they can ride to school together, they think. She’s always with him.
A little further along, Skye and Wynn sit on the bank of the stream. Skye’s writing long sentences on Wynn’s cast. Phoenix is sitting on a tree, above them, throwing stones into the water. They notice a line of reporters sitting on fold-up chairs in the grass, looking down at their phones. Others are walking around, taking pictures. A woman takes a picture of their car as it drives past.
Hanif’s breath sticks in his throat. It feels like everyone’s waiting to catch them out.
Laila squeezes his hand.
She’s told him over and over that it’s going to be okay, that no one’s going to find out what happened. But he knows that she’s scared too.
He keeps looking out through the car window.
On the doorstep of Reverend Avery’s house, the man with the bald head and the black beard who brought Abi and Cal to live here at the beginning of the summer knocks on the door.
Outside the library, reporters set up their equipment on the grass.
More yard signs have popped up along Main Street: WARNES FOR US SENATE.
At the crossroads at the end of town sits a police car, its lights flashing blue.
Laila squeezes Hanif’s hand tighter.
* * *
At the top of the hill, not far from Astrid’s house, Dad takes a left and that’s when the twins know where they’re going.
Maybe he wants to show them the progress he’s made on the mosque, they think. He’s always saying how proud he wants them to be of it. That a bit of Lahore—and of their faith—is on American soil.
“Did you fix the crack in the minaret?” Laila asks.
Dad doesn’t answer.
And then his phone goes off.
“Hey, Ayaan.”
A man’s voice comes through the car speakers—it’s Jimmy, the attorney Dad got for them so they don’t have to talk to the police about what happened at the party. He came to speak to them on Monday afternoon and when they told him that they didn’t know what happened, he said, Good, stick to that story. The less we give them, the better.
Which had seemed like a strange thing to say. But the twins were glad they didn’t have to speak to the police again. And they were glad they’d kept their promise to the other kids. It was better not to say anything. The grown-ups wouldn’t understand.
“Did you see what they did?” Dad asks.
“Yeah.”
“I want this kept out of the papers.”
“I think it’s too late for that. I saw some reporters taking pictures when I drove past. And there’s an article online already.”
Dad thumps the steering wheel. “I want to issue a statement, then,” he says. “A direct response from me.”
“I’m not sure that’s wise—it might come across as defensive—”
“Defensive?” Dad laughs. “Of course I’m defensive. My family’s being attacked. The mosque’s being attacked. People here know me, Jimmy. It’s a small community. They trust me. They’ll want to hear something directly from me.”
Jimmy goes quiet for a bit. Then he says, “Look, Ayaan, the graffiti was probably just some kid messing around. It might not be related to the shooting.”
The twins exchange a glance.
“Oh, it’s related,” Dad says.
“Okay. But people do this kind of stuff all the time. We’re seeing it throughout New Hampshire. You’ve been lucky up to now. Building a mosque was bound to attract some negative attention.”
“Just get on top of it,” Dad says. “We open on Sunday. I need this to go away.”
And then, before Jimmy gets to say anything else, Dad ends the call.
The twins try to work out what Jimmy meant about the mosque being related to the shooting. And what he meant about their family and the mosque being attacked. None of this is making any sense.
Dad pulls into the parking lot of the construction site.
And that’s when they see what Dad meant. Someone’s spray-painted big red, yellow and black words across one of the marble walls.
They wait for Dad to say something—to explain—but, like them, he keeps staring at the graffiti.
Hanif squeezes Laila’s hand, prompting her to speak. Dad takes things better from her. Whenever Hanif tries to speak, it irritates his dad.
“What does it mean, Dad?” Laila asks, her voice small.
“It means what it says,” Dad says. “They think we’re terrorists.”
The twins learned about terrorists in fifth grade: that they were people who did bad things to make others feel scared. Really bad things.
“Who thinks we’re terrorists?” Laila asks.
“The people who wrote it. And probably other people too,” Dad says.
“But why would anyone write that about us?” Laila asks.
Hanif shoots Laila a glance, like she’s meant to understand. And then she gets the sinking feeling that comes over her every time she thinks about the party and what happened at the stable.
“Because they blame us,” Dad says. “As a family. For Astrid getting shot.”
The twins look down at the yellow sand of the construction site. They wish it would swallow them up.
“What do they mean by go home?” Laila asks.
“Pakistan,” Dad says.
“But Pakistan’s not our home,” Hanif says. “Not any more. We live here, now. In Middlebrook.” His voice goes shaky.
It had taken them a while to adjust. The cold in winters. The bland food. The way people stare at them, sometimes, just because their skin is darker than theirs. But they like it here, now. They have friends.
“We’re Muslims,” Dad says, his voice hard and impatient. “And that makes us different.”
Laila presses Hanif’s hand. They should stick to her doing the talking
.
“Who do you think did it?” Laila asks Dad.
Dad shrugs. “It doesn’t really matter.”
“But won’t they get in trouble? When you tell the police?” Laila asks.
Dad turns around in his seat and looks from one twin to the other. “There’s only one way we can put an end to this,” he says.
The twins’ hearts speed up.
“You’re going to come with me—to the hospital,” Dad says.
“To the hospital?” the twins say at the same time.
“Yes. We’re going to see Dr. Carver.”
“How will talking to Dr. Carver help?” Laila starts.
“Dr. Carver is our friend—and we offended her. And she’s the only one who can make this go away.”
“But didn’t Jimmy say—” Laila goes on.
“Screw Jimmy,” Dad says.
The twins suck in their breath. Dad never curses. Not in front of them, anyway.
“But what do you want us to tell her?” Laila asks. “We’ve already said everything we know to the police—”
Dad keeps staring at them, hard. It feels like ages before he starts talking again. So long they hope that he might change his mind and just take them to school—or better, back home to Mom.
But then he leans in closer. “You’re going to apologize for being in the stable when Astrid got hurt—”
“But—” Laila starts.
He holds up a hand. “And you’re going to tell her the truth about what happened. No more keeping secrets. No more protecting your so-called friends. You’re going to make it clear to her that you had nothing to do with what happened.” He pauses. “And then, you’re going to tell her exactly who shot her daughter.”
CHAPTER
32
1 p.m.
PRISCILLA SITS AT the table, watching Peter walking around the kitchen they designed together. He makes them each a mug of tea. He’d always been more domestic than her. Better at cooking and entertaining. At making sure everyone has a drink in their hand.
Every now and then, she catches herself forgetting that he left her: that he doesn’t live here any more.
“I can’t believe Ayaan,” she says, putting down her mug.
“Come on, Cil, let’s give it a rest.”
“After the support I showed him with the mosque—getting his kids to say that it was Astrid’s fault—”
“Ayaan looked mortified at what the twins said. And then he couldn’t leave fast enough, he was so embarrassed. Remember what he said when he brought them in? He wanted them to apologize. And he wanted them to tell you the truth about who shot Astrid, to help with the investigation—to put an end to the speculation.”
“But they didn’t apologize, did they? They blamed Astrid.”
“They were scared—couldn’t you see that? It was the only thing they could think to say. And they didn’t exactly blame her.”
“They said it was her idea to take the gun out of the safe—that it was her idea to load the gun—that she should never have been at the party to begin with: I’d call that blaming.” She takes a breath. “The point is, Peter, they didn’t apologize—and they didn’t tell us who pulled the trigger. Even when their dad pushed them to tell us the truth, they just kept repeating that it was Astrid’s idea. They may as well have said that she pulled the trigger on herself.”
Laila, who did all the talking while her brother stood, shrunk with fear, at her side, kept focusing on the fact that everyone was playing happily until Astrid showed up. The implication being that, take Astrid out of the equation, the shooting would never have happened.
“I think that they were—that Laila was—trying to say that it was a confusing situation for all of them,” Peter says. “They were frightened when the gun came out. They didn’t know what to do. And then some of them got over-excited. Stood too close to each other. Started passing the gun around. It happened fast. Astrid is one of the pieces of the puzzle, that’s all she was saying.”
“That’s all, is it?”
“Maybe the children really didn’t see what happened. Maybe they’re not covering anything up. These things can happen so fast. They’re confused. It must have been such a shock—”
“Can you imagine how confusing—how shocking—it must have been for our daughter to have a gun pointed at her? To see someone pulling the trigger?”
“Of course, Cil—I was just saying—”
“Those children know exactly what happened, Peter. And they’re deliberately twisting things to avoid getting in trouble.” She tops up her glass and takes a long, slow gulp. Then she goes on, “And Astrid’s never held a gun. She knows not to go near them.”
Peter catches Priscilla’s eye.
“And she knew not to go near the party, too,” Peter says. “Yet she did.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means that we can’t pretend that Astrid is innocent in all this. She went to the party. And, knowing Astrid, she probably had an agenda.”
Priscilla gets up, walks over to the window. She looks out across the field toward the Carvers’ house and pictures Astrid running through the long sheaves of corn.
“It wasn’t her fault,” she says.
Peter comes over and puts his palm on her shoulder blades.
“No one’s saying it was. Ayaan was just trying to do the right thing. You know how principled he is. And how he raises those children of his—they’re not allowed to step a foot out of line. All this must be devastating for him, having them involved. And then how they embarrassed him today.”
Yes, Priscilla knows. The perfect twins with their perfect clothes and their perfect manners who live in their perfect white mansion with their perfect mother—the perfect wife, who’s managed to keep hold of her husband.
And then Ayaan: elegant, eloquent, charming Ayaan Sayed who’d persuaded a conservative Board of Selectmen to let him build a mosque in the middle of rural New Hampshire. Who’d persuaded Priscilla to join the board—to be his ally.
“You saw how they vandalized the mosque,” Peter goes on. They’d watched the news report together on the TV in the family room this morning. “He must be beside himself.”
“He was trying to get his kids off the hook, Peter. That’s why he came to the hospital. And it backfired. Because the way they blamed Astrid—in my book, that just makes them look even more guilty.”
“You really think the Sayed twins shot Astrid?”
“I think they’re just as capable of having done it as any of the other kids.”
Priscilla walks over to the radio she keeps on the kitchen counter and switches on to the local station.
“After the August heatwave, fall has finally arrived. Temperatures dropping to the mid-40s tomorrow. Coming up, the latest on the Playdate Shooting, which has taken an unexpected twist with the vandalism of a local mosque …”
Peter walks over to the radio and switches it off.
“I was listening to that.”
“You’re going to drive yourself crazy, listening to what those reporters are saying.”
“I need to know what they’re saying, Peter—because it’s obvious that they’re doing more investigating than the police. They might have found something out.” She pauses. “And maybe the reason the Sayed twins made that stuff up at the hospital is because they do have something to hide.”
“The media’s not investigating, Cil, they’re chasing stories. And it’s getting out of hand—”
“Out of hand? Our daughter’s in a critical condition in the local ICU, Peter—how much more out of hand can it get than that?”
“Have you seen that picture they took of Phoenix? It’s everywhere.”
She nods. Every time the news feed opens on her phone, there it is: a boy, his back to the camera, sitting in the high branches of a tree next to St. Mary’s church. He’s holding his arm up in the air, his fingers curled into the shape of a gun.
“It could be any kid, Peter. The picture�
�s symbolic of what’s going on. It’s making a statement. They haven’t even named him.”
“Everyone in Middlebrook will know it’s him.”
“So what?”
“So what? He’s a kid.”
Facebook finally took down her Justice for Astrid page. They’d received complaints. Priscilla knows the rules about using pictures of kids involved in a criminal investigation. But when it’s your kid who’s gotten hurt, the rules change. So what if Phoenix Bowen is in the paper? Astrid is in hospital, fighting for her life: she got shot at a kids’ party. The rules no longer apply.
“Poor True—” Peter says.
“Poor True? Seriously, Peter. He took his three children to a party where he knew there’d be guns.”
“For goodness sake, Cil, we can’t keep turning on our friends. If we pit ourselves against the rest of the community, we’re just going to make things worse—”
Priscilla looks back out through the kitchen window: a streak of purple slashes the sky just above Woodwind Stables. The lights are already on in the farmhouse. How she wishes she could just blot that place out of her life.
“When people took their kids to that party, they chose their sides,” she says.
For a long time, Peter doesn’t say anything. Then he comes and folds his arms around her and they stand there, by the window, holding on to each other. Her body collapses into his, her limbs too tired to move. The anger seeps away and all she feels is tiredness—and sadness. At the broken promises. At how they’d failed to be there for each other, and for their daughter, when it mattered most.
“I really think a rest would help. You could get a couple of hours in before the service.”
“Oh God, the service.”
Avery had sent her a text last night: she was putting together a family prayer meeting after school this afternoon. To bring the community together, she’d said.
Priscilla hadn’t replied. She couldn’t face another town meeting. And anyway, what good was praying going to do? But then Wendy Warnes had called her and said that one of her aides had got wind of the prayer meeting. It will be good for us to appear together, don’t you think? Wendy had said, with an intimacy that suggested they might have been friends in college, after all.
