by Nina Monroe
“A homicide investigation?”
“Yes.”
“But Astrid’s still alive—isn’t she?”
“Yes. But in cases like this, we follow homicide procedures from the start.”
Ben’s still at the station. They haven’t stopped asking him questions.
“So, my husband—” She swallows hard. “Might he be charged?”
Lieutenant Mesenberg’s face softens.
“We’re not there yet.”
“But that’s what you’re looking at?”
“We have a long road ahead of us, Mrs. Wright. We need to take this one step at a time.”
“Ben wasn’t even there when the shooting happened.”
“And yet the children got hold of his firearm. And the ammunition.”
“You know that Ben would never put anyone in danger, least of all a child.”
“Perhaps not willingly, no. But there might be a case for neglectful homicide.”
“Neglectful? Do you have any idea how seriously my husband takes gun safety? I just explained how he taught our son—”
“We all make mistakes, Mrs. Wright.”
“Ben doesn’t make mistakes. Not like this.”
“Well, that’s why we need a thorough investigation.”
“And what about the child—the one who shot Astrid? What would happen to them?” Kaitlin asks.
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“On if there was intent.”
“Intent?”
“Yes.”
“You mean intent to kill?”
“Yes.”
Kaitlin’s heart jolts. They think that someone tried to shoot Astrid on purpose?
The detective takes a step forward. “Look, Mrs. Wright, I know that this has been a big shock. I’d recommend that you talk to your son and your husband, try to help us get a clear story. Now, if I may, I’m going to take another look at the stable.”
As Kaitlin watches the lieutenant walking away, she listens to the wind pulling leaves off the maples, to the horses shuffling their hooves in the straw, their warm bodies shifting in the dark; she thinks about her oldest horse, Lucy, who was so scared by what happened that she ran from the stable, far out into the field. It had taken Kaitlin hours to coax her back.
Bryar’s words from the police interview come back to her:
Wynn was jumping up and down next to Astrid … he wanted to have a turn with the gun …
And that’s when it dawns on her.
It wasn’t an accident—Lucy knocking Wynn off his feet like that. Kaitlin has known this horse her entire life: she’s too much in control of her body to have made a mistake like this. No, there was nothing accidental about what happened to Wynn. Lucy threw him to the side of the stall intentionally. She was getting him out of the way of the gun. She saved his life.
CHAPTER
17
9 p.m.
“SO, YOU HAVE no idea what Astrid was doing at the party?” Lieutenant Mesenberg asks.
Priscilla looks down at the lieutenant’s notepad, filled with scratchy handwriting. When the lieutenant had called to ask whether she could come to the hospital to interview her, a series of excuses had run through Priscilla’s mind. She didn’t feel up to seeing anyone. But in the end, she’d agreed. She needs to know whether they’re any closer to finding out who did this to Astrid.
“No, I don’t have any idea what Astrid was doing at the party,” Priscilla says, gripping her cup of coffee.
The detective pushes a strand of frizzy gray hair out of her eyes and looks at her notepad. “And you weren’t home at the time—is that correct?”
“I was at work.” Priscilla feels her hackles rising. “Shouldn’t you be focusing your resources on interviewing the families who were actually at the party—and the children who were involved in shooting my daughter?”
“My team is working on that. But we need to take a 360-degree view of the situation. It’s important that we gather all the information we can.”
“I’m not sure you need to go much further than Ben Wright and his son.”
Lieutenant Mesenberg pauses for a beat. And then says, “I’ve heard that your relationship with the Wrights is strained.”
Priscilla laughs. “Strained? You could say that.”
“And yet your daughter still went to the party?” the lieutenant goes on.
“Yes.”
“Against your wishes?”
“Of course, against my wishes.”
“I see.”
Lieutenant Mesenberg puts on her reading glasses and looks back at her pad and says, “So, back to Sunday afternoon. You left your daughter alone in the house.”
“She’s eleven. She’s more than capable of looking after herself.” Priscilla feels the hollowness of these words. She takes a breath. “I wasn’t going to be long.”
“You were away from the house for …” She reads from her notepad. “Four hours?”
Priscilla straightens the back of her neck. “Do you have children?”
The detective shifts in her chair. “No—”
“Because of the job?”
“Look, Dr. Carver—I understand that this is a difficult time for you. But I need to get the fullest picture I can of what happened on Sunday afternoon.” She pauses. “And of what led to the shooting.”
Her throat tightens. She doesn’t want to be sitting here. She wants to be with Astrid. She never wants to leave Astrid again.
“Dr. Carver?”
Priscilla looks back at the lieutenant. She wants her to go now. To leave her alone.
“Coming back to your daughter. You said you have no idea why she went.”
“I assume she was lured there.”
Lieutenant Mesenberg’s eyebrows shoot up over her glasses. “Lured?”
“Yes. By that Wright boy. Or one of those other kids.”
“You believe they wanted her there?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
The lieutenant will have been interviewing the other children; God knows what they’ve been saying to her.
“Astrid and Bryar Wright used to be friends,” Priscilla says.
“How long ago was that?”
“Three years.”
“And, what happened?”
“We decided that he wasn’t a good influence.”
“We?”
“My husband and I.”
“Of course. It would be helpful to speak to him too.”
“He’s not here.”
“Right. Well, maybe when there’s a convenient time.”
A wave of tiredness washes over Priscilla. She doesn’t want to have to explain the details of her family life to this stranger. It’s no one’s business other than hers. And it has nothing to do with what happened to Astrid. She should never have agreed to this meeting.
“You said that you and your husband thought Bryar Wright wasn’t a good influence. In what way?”
“We don’t share the same values as the Wrights.”
“And which values would those be?”
Priscilla looks straight at Lieutenant Mesenberg. “The Wrights have firearms in their home.”
The detective sits back. “Many families have firearms in their home, Dr. Carver.”
“And my daughter doesn’t play in any of those houses. She knows it’s dangerous.”
“So, if I’m hearing this right, you’re saying that you suspected a child could get shot at the party?”
“Suspected?” Priscilla shakes her head. “No. I didn’t suspect. I knew.”
“Could you be more specific?”
“Ben Wright is obsessed with guns.”
The detective raises her eyebrows. “Obsessed? That’s a strong word.”
“He has firearms all over his house. Spends hours at the shooting range. What else would you call it?”
“He’s a law enforcement officer, Dr. Carver.”
She should have known it: they’ve
all got each other’s backs.
“Does being a law enforcement officer put you above the law?” Priscilla asks.
“No, certainly not. But it does come with certain responsibilities—”
“He killed my dog.”
“Excuse me?”
“A rescue dog. Three years ago. Shot him, right through the heart, for no reason at all.”
The detective opens her pad and makes another note.
“He probably has loaded firearms just lying around the house—” Priscilla goes on.
“I believe the pistol in question was taken from a safe.”
“Do you have a gun safe in your home, Lieutenant?”
She doesn’t answer.
“Okay, you don’t want to say. I get it. I assume you have firearm safes at the police department?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“And how many digits make up the code needed to unlock those safes?”
“Six.”
“Do you own a cell phone?”
The detective shifts uncomfortably in her chair. “I’m not sure that this is relevant.”
Priscilla laughs again. “Oh, believe me, this is the most relevant part of the conversation we’ve had so far. Do you own a cell phone, Detective?”
“Yes, of course.”
“And does it have a code?”
“Yes.”
“How many digits?”
Priscilla notices a pink blush seeping into Lieutenant Mesenberg’s cheeks.
“Six,” the lieutenant says.
“Do you know how old my daughter was when she first memorized the code to my phone?”
The detective waits for Priscilla to go on.
“Five years old.” Priscilla leans forward, holding out her palms. “So it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to work out that a kid could open a gun safe, does it? That Bryar Wright, watching his father opening and closing those safes of his several times a day—when he goes to work, when he comes back from work, when he goes to the shooting range, when he goes hunting—”
“I understand what you’re saying, Dr. Carver, but there’s a big difference between shooting a dog and shooting a child.”
Priscilla thinks back to the case that made her leave her job as an attorney and turn to academia. The one that taught her that guns had no place in people’s homes, especially homes with children. Human beings were too unpredictable—too emotionally unstable—to be trusted with anything as dangerous as a gun.
“You know as well as I do, Lieutenant, that when there are guns around, anyone can be a target. An animal. A child. A police officer, even.”
“You have strong views on firearms, I understand that, Dr. Carver—”
Priscilla’s done with this conversation. She puts down her cup of coffee, stands up, and walks toward the door.
“Is there any chance your daughter might know how to open a gun safe, Dr. Carver?”
Priscilla spins round. “Excuse me?”
“You said yourself how easy it was.”
“I said that she could if she wanted to. That any child her age—or younger—could. But no, she doesn’t know how to open a gun safe.”
“Does your daughter have a phone?”
“I don’t see what this has to do with—?”
“You said your daughter could unlock your phone easily. Does she have one of her own?”
“Yes.”
“We didn’t find it.”
“Sorry?”
“We didn’t find a phone on her—or in the stable. We took the phone of every child at the party—every child who had one. The media department at the station has been looking closely at everything from text message exchanges to Facebook profiles to internet search histories. It’s often a shortcut to getting to the bottom of cases like this.”
“Astrid would have had her phone with her. She refuses to go anywhere without it.”
“Well, it’s missing.”
“Then I suggest you find it. One of the other children probably stole it.”
“They were all stripped at the station.”
“Well, then, it’s probably still in the stable somewhere.”
“We’ve looked.”
“Okay. Well, whatever. It doesn’t really matter, does it? What my daughter had on her phone, does it? Why don’t you focus your energy on who did this to her?”
“Might your daughter have had a motive for getting hold of a firearm?” the lieutenant asks as though Priscilla hasn’t spoken.
Priscilla looks up. “A motive? For Christ’s sake, it’s my daughter who got shot—who’s lying in a coma with a bullet hole through her chest!”
“Okay. Let’s turn the question round. Do you know why Astrid might have been a target?”
Priscilla stands on the spot, frozen, the question sinking in. “Are you suggesting it was her fault that she got shot?”
“No, but I’m saying there have been suggestions that she’s unpopular.”
“Unpopular?”
“That she makes the other children feel … inferior in some way. That she finds it hard to make friends.”
Priscilla turns back to the door. “I’ve heard enough of this. I need to get back to my daughter.”
“I have a few more questions,” the lieutenant says, standing up. “It will help with the investigation. I need to establish the facts.”
Priscilla walks back toward her, her chin jutting out. “The facts?”
“Yes.”
“Let me give you some facts, Lieutenant.” Priscilla holds up one finger. “On Sunday afternoon, at a children’s party, my eleven-year-old daughter was shot. Fact.”
She holds up a second finger. “On the Wrights’ property. Fact.”
She holds up a third finger. “And now she’s in a coma. Fact.”
She holds up a fourth finger. “And while we’ve been sitting here, whoever is responsible for shooting my daughter, is walking around free to shoot anyone else they please.” Priscilla looks down at the detective. “Why don’t you start with those facts?”
Priscilla thinks about the media contacts she has in her phone from her days as an attorney in Boston. Reporters. News anchors. TV presenters. Friends who feel like she does about gun laws. She’s going to make sure that people around the country are talking about what happened to Astrid—maybe then Lieutenant Mesenberg will start taking this case seriously.
Priscilla walks back to the door. As she reaches for the handle, it opens from the other side. Her breath sticks in her throat.
He’s standing in front of her. His skin a golden tan. An open white polo neck. Chinos. His blond hair bleached by the sun.
The lieutenant stands up. “I’m afraid that we’re having a private meeting, sir—if you could give us a few minutes—”
“This is Dr. Peter Carver,” Priscilla says, her voice cracking. “My husband. Astrid’s father.”
CHAPTER
18
10 p.m.
KAITLIN GOES INTO Lucy’s stall and leans her head against the old mare’s neck.
Lucy hasn’t touched her food. And Kaitlin can tell, from the position of her head, and from how she’s pressed up against the side of the stall, that she’s still in shock.
“Thank you,” she whispers to her. “For trying to help.”
Kaitlin knows how much Lucy loves children.
She wishes she could reach out to True and tell him that Lucy was trying to protect Wynn. That it wasn’t her fault. But when a child gets hurt, there’s no knowing how a parent will react, even a parent as level-headed as True Bowen.
From this stall, she can see the back office. The open doorway. The empty safe.
She’s walked past it a million times without giving it a second thought. Like the rifle cabinet in their living room and the biometric safe by their bed.
When had she agreed to have all these guns in her house?
On her parents’ ranch back in Texas, she’d grown up with guns. But as a kid, you don’t get a say in the
choices your mom and dad make. Most of the time, you don’t even question them. And it was Texas. Everyone in Texas has firearms.
But when you get married—when you have your own family—don’t you get the chance to make a fresh start? To do things differently from your parents?
A knot of anger forms in her stomach. Anger at Ben for putting them in this position. But even more at herself.
Why had she gone along with it?
She’d never asked Ben to put a gun safe in the stable. She didn’t need protecting, not like this. She hardly knew how to shoot a gun—what good would it have done, even if there had been an intruder?
He could keep his work pistols at the station. He could store the rifles he used for hunting elsewhere. There was no need for them to have guns in their home.
Why had she never told him that?
And how many other things in her life—in her marriage—has she gone along with, blindly?
“Katie?”
She spins round.
She hadn’t heard Ben’s truck pull up the drive.
“What are you doing here, standing in the dark?” he asks.
“I …” She looks away from the gun safe. “I was checking on Lucy.”
He steps toward her and folds his arms around her. He smells of the police station: of dust and metal; paper and coffee. But underneath, she can still smell his skin: the smell of the earth warmed by the sun, a smell that makes her feel safe. Even when they were high school kids, Kaitlin knew that Ben wasn’t just another human being, separate from her: he was her home.
She breathes in deeply until the smell of him floods her body.
“I was worried they’d keep you overnight again,” she whispers into his thick, dark hair.
“Me too,” he answers.
They hold on to each other a little longer.
Lucy takes a few steps from the corner of the stall. She seems calmer too, now that Ben’s back.
He sits down on one of the bales of hay, slumping his torso. “It’s been a hell of a day.”
She sits down beside him. “Yeah.”
“Bryar okay?” he asks.
“I don’t know.”
Ben looks around. “Did he say anything about what happened in here?”