by Nina Monroe
“It’s good to see you, Peter,” Avery says.
Peter gives her a nod.
After Peter left, Avery had alluded to herself and Priscilla being single parents. Priscilla had thought it a bit much. Avery’s never been married. Her kids are foster children. And she doesn’t have a clue what it feels like to have your husband walk out on you.
“Well, I hope you like the service,” Avery goes on, filling the silence. “I wish it could have been a bit more private.” She looks around at the reporters. “All of this has drawn quite some attention to our little community.”
“All of this?” Priscilla asks.
The two women lock eyes.
Priscilla wishes Avery would just say it out loud: The shooting. Of a child. Of your daughter. That’s what’s drawn attention to Middlebrook. And rightly so. No child should ever get shot without everyone knowing about it.
“Well, I believe Governor Warnes has saved you a seat—one of her aides came in early. Let me know if there’s anything you need, I’m here to help.”
“Thank you, Avery, we’re very grateful,” Peter says.
It drives her crazy. It always has. How Peter feels the need to smooth things over—like he’s apologizing for her.
Avery and Peter wait for Priscilla to say something.
But again, she keeps quiet. Because she knows that if she doesn’t, she’ll lose it. She’ll tell Avery how she really feels about her and her foster kids and her pointless prayer meeting and the fact that she reserved a special parking spot on her driveway for the Wrights. And Priscilla knows she can’t lose it. Like Wendy said, she has to keep a good public face.
So instead, she looks down and says the words in her head, the words she wishes everyone could hear: You want to help, Avery? Really? Well, why don’t you use that hotline you have to God or whoever it is up there who you think has control of things right now, and find out who shot my daughter? Or better. Why don’t you get those foster kids of yours to tell the truth? Because they saw what happened. They must have. Just like the kids who were there that afternoon. Chances are, one of them did this.
* * *
Kaitlin feels everyone pressing in, staring at her and Ben. She wishes they hadn’t come.
She glances back at the doors of St. Mary’s, hoping that Bryar might have decided to come in after all. He’d refused to get out of the car. It had scared him, seeing so many people crowded outside the church.
She turns around and scans the church. Her eyes fall on Eva and Will, sitting across the aisle. Lily’s not with them either. Maybe she went to find Bryar.
If there’s one good thing that’s come out of this horrible mess, it’s their friendship. For the first time in his life, Bryar’s got someone at his side—someone who isn’t his mom or dad. Under different circumstances, Kaitlin would allow herself to feel happy, but right now, she can’t focus on anything besides the sick feeling she has in the pit of her stomach, sitting here, knowing that everyone is judging her son. She hasn’t been able to get the radio interview out of her head. The one where that psychiatrist made it sound like it was inevitable that Bryar would do something like this.
And an even worse feeling lies under it all: about her and Ben. How they’ve barely talked in days.
She looks at Priscilla and Peter sitting in the front row, Wendy Warnes nestled in beside them. She’s pretty sure that a few days ago, Wendy Warnes didn’t even know that their small town existed. She’d seen it before, when they lived in Texas: politicians sweeping in for the elections, making promises they’d forget as soon as they’d gotten their votes.
Ben, no doubt sensing her anxiety, tries to take her hand. He’s always been so good at reading her emotions. But she reaches for the prayer sheet to avoid the contact.
She feels him flinch but pretends not to notice.
Her whole life, Kaitlin’s trusted Ben’s judgment: his moral compass that never fails. His goodness. But now, she can’t stop questions from crowding into her brain. About whether they’ve been wrong this whole time to let guns be part of their lives. Their home. Their family.
And now, every time she looks at one of those safes in her home, she feels like she can’t breathe.
Kaitlin bows her head. She doesn’t know if she can do this. Be here. Pretend things are okay with her and Ben. Pretend she doesn’t blame him for what happened on Sunday—for putting his son through all this.
Avery walks past, barely making eye contact with Kaitlin.
They’d always been there for each other, but they haven’t spoken since Sunday.
She blames us too, Kaitlin thinks. For inviting Cal and Abi to the party. For putting them in danger when they were already so vulnerable.
And maybe she’s right. Maybe all of them are right.
“We shouldn’t have parked on her driveway,” Kaitlin says.
Ben looks up. “What?”
“The truck. We should have parked on the road.”
He looks at her, confused.
“We can’t go around pretending that things are the same, Ben.”
“I don’t understand what you’re saying, Katie.”
“People blame us for what happened.”
Avery’s voice comes through the speakers at the sides of the church. “Welcome to you all,” she says. “It’s important, I believe, that we come together in times like these …”
“Maybe it is our fault,” Kaitlin goes on.
“Let’s not do this now, Katie.”
She swallows hard.
“I’m so glad to see so many of you today …” Avery says. “It’s been a tough few days for our little community …”
There’s a murmur. Some people nod their heads in agreement. Others just stare or shift uncomfortably in their seats. Everyone’s felt it: how they’re being watched; the articles and the TV and radio reports. How they’ve been talking to strangers about each other. How their community is slowly cracking open.
“I want to go and check on Bryar,” Kaitlin says.
“He’ll be okay. Let’s not make a fuss,” Ben whispers.
“No. I can’t do this … I can’t …”
She feels it breaking apart. The life she’s always known. Her marriage to Ben. Her place in this community. Being a mother to Bryar. How can she sit here and pray, knowing that she’s failed everyone?
“Look, we’ll talk about this later, my love. Okay? Let’s not draw attention to ourselves now.”
She looks around her. At all these people. At Lieutenant Mesenberg, sitting across the aisle. At the reporters, hovering in the doorway.
“We come here, united before God …” Avery goes on.
Kaitlin swallows again, pushing down the thoughts that have been crashing around in her head for days now.
That she’s been asleep her whole life. That she’s gone along with things without questioning them. And that it’s this weakness, this inability to think for herself, that put Astrid in hospital. That put her son and her husband at the heart of a police investigation.
I’m the one who should be locked up, she thinks.
* * *
Wendy Warnes spends most of the service scrolling on her phone. When they get to the actual prayers, she makes a show of putting it down beside her and bowing her head, but Priscilla can still see her sneaking glimpses at her screen.
To be honest, she’s never really liked her, not even back at law school. But Wendy has influence. And she’s supporting Astrid’s cause. That’s all Priscilla should be thinking about right now.
Most of the prayers, so far, have been general. Prayers for the community. Prayers for healing. Prayers for empathy and understanding at this difficult time. Prayers for children and families. Just when Priscilla thinks that no one’s even going to mention Astrid, Avery clears her throat and says, “Before we close, we should bring to mind, once again, the very special young girl who’s in Colebrook Hospital, fighting for her life.”
Priscilla’s throat goes tight.
&nbs
p; “It’s very hard to watch a child suffer, especially one of our own,” Avery says. “And we must give our special prayers to Astrid’s parents, Priscilla and Peter, who, very courageously, are with us today.”
Priscilla feels people turning toward her and Peter. The silence in the church deepens. Peter laces his fingers through hers.
Priscilla and Peter. She remembers how, when they first started dating, she’d get a rush of joy whenever someone said their names together like that, as though the alliteration was a sign that they were meant to be together.
She tightens her fingers around Peter’s and bows her head.
“We pray that God might give them strength at this difficult time. A child is the most precious gift from God …” Avery goes on. “And when something happens to our children, we are often tested beyond what we think we can bear …”
Priscilla digs her nails into her palms. She has to hold it together.
“We pray that you might be with them at this time …” Avery says.
Wendy Warnes’s phone buzzes.
The hairs on the back of Priscilla’s neck fly up. Couldn’t she turn off that damn phone for a few minutes?
Wendy turns around and whispers to one of her aides. Then she stands up, right there, in the middle of the prayer meeting, and walks out of the church.
CHAPTER
35
9 p.m.
AFTER THE PRAYER meeting, Priscilla looked everywhere for Wendy Warnes, but she’d left already.
And then, when she and Peter got back to the hospital, she’d tried to call Wendy, left three voicemails. But she hadn’t called back.
“Something’s probably come up,” Peter says. “You know how it is with people like her.”
“But why did she just get up like that and leave? And why’s she not answering her phone?”
Priscilla looks back at Astrid. She knows it’s stupid but she’d hoped that maybe, all those prayers—everyone coming together to support her—might have made a difference. That Astrid would have felt it, somehow.
“What if she doesn’t wake up,” Priscilla says, quietly.
“She’s going to wake up, Cil.”
“How do you know that? Everything I’ve read says that the longer she’s in a coma, the less likely it is that she’ll make it—”
“Then stop reading that stuff and remember who our daughter is. She won’t give up without a fight.”
Priscilla wants to believe him. But she’s starting to lose hope.
They settle back in their chairs on each side of Astrid’s bed. Peter closes his eyes. It’s been a long day for both of them.
Priscilla’s phone rings. She puts it straight to her ear.
“Wendy?” she says.
There’s a silence down the line.
And then, a man’s voice comes through.
“Dr. Carver?”
“Yes.”
“This is Chris Barker—from Rise and Shine America.”
It takes a second for the words to sink in. For days she’s been reaching out to him and to the other major TV networks. If only she could get on one of those shows, the ones watched by millions of Americans all over the country, then she could rally support for Astrid’s cause and put real pressure on Mesenberg to start taking this investigation seriously.
“I’m sorry I didn’t get back to you earlier,” Chris Barker says.
Peter opens his eyes and mouths, Who is it?
Priscilla flutters her hands, stands up, and goes out into the hall.
She’s surprised that he’s called her directly: she’d expected it to be one of his producers.
“I realize this is a difficult time. I’m so sorry for everything you’re going through.” From listening to so many of his shows, there’s a familiarity to his voice.
“Thank you.”
“So, you’re keen to come on the show to talk to us about what happened? Give us your version of events?”
“My version?”
“Of what Astrid might say if she wakes up.”
“When she wakes up.”
“Yes.”
Priscilla thinks back to what Peter said yesterday. About things getting out of hand. About there being a witch hunt. How the kids were being profiled. She was the one who’d caused it. Who’d made people speculate and point the finger. But it was for the right reasons, wasn’t it? It was because she wanted people to realize, once and for all, how dangerous it was to have guns in people’s homes—in children’s homes.
Through a window, Priscilla watches a bunch of fallen leaves dancing across the floodlit parking lot. The summer already turning to fall.
“We’re running a special on the Playdate Shooting. It would be wonderful to have you on the show.”
Priscilla’s cheeks flush. Millions of Americans watch his show every day. And he gets to decide what they hear.
“Dr. Carver—you still there?”
“Yes.”
“We’ve got a slot in tomorrow morning’s show. We could send a car over to you later tonight. We’ve booked you on the last flight from Boston to JFK. And we made a reservation at a hotel near the studio. There’s huge public interest in your story.”
Priscilla’s mind races. Leaving Astrid feels wrong. She hadn’t even wanted to go home with Peter. But maybe this is what she’s been waiting for: the opportunity to put real pressure on the police investigation. To share her views on gun control. To make sure that innocent kids like Astrid stop getting hurt by guns. And with Wendy going quiet on her, she has to find another way to keep Astrid’s story alive.
“Dr. Carver—shall I give my team the green light?”
Through the window of the door to Astrid’s room, she looks at Peter, asleep in the armchair. At Astrid, lying in the hospital bed, her pale hair spread over her pillow, her sunburn faded now.
Priscilla closes her eyes and takes a deep breath.
“Okay,” she says. “I’ll be there.”
DAY SIX
Friday, September 6
CHAPTER
36
7 a.m.
YASMIN STANDS AT the door to the twins’ bedroom: clothes hang out of their drawers and wardrobe and books and dirty laundry cover the floor. With everything that’s been going on, she hasn’t had the energy to nag them to tidy up.
From downstairs, she can hear the television. School doesn’t start for another hour but the twins got up early have done since the shooting, anxious, every day, to find out whether Astrid has woken up.
After the prayer meeting ended abruptly with Governor Warnes rushing out, Yasmin found the twins coming out of the woods with the other children: they said they went for a walk to the pond. Ayaan had gotten angry: he pulled them away and drove them straight home.
He was still furious at them for what they said to Priscilla at the hospital, putting the blame on Astrid like that. And now they’d gone against his will by running off with every kid on Ayaan’s blacklist. Secretly, Yasmin was glad that the twins had spent time with their friends: that they had the courage to follow their hearts.
Looking back at the twins’ room, Yasmin notices that Laila has stuffed things under her bed: school books, a deflated soccer ball, a hairbrush, old birthday and Christmas cards. She doesn’t like to throw anything away. Yasmin kneels in front of her bed and reaches for the old trunk Laila has kept since she was five years old. It’s always been stuffed so full that it’s impossible to close the lid but, this time, the lid has been pressed shut. And she’s put a lock on it too.
“Mum! What are you doing?”
Startled, Yasmin bangs her head on the bedframe and looks round. Laila’s standing at the bedroom door.
“I was only tidying—” Yasmin starts.
Laila’s face is red. She darts into the room and pushes past Yasmin, grabs her trunk and shoves it deeper under her bed.
“We’re old enough to tidy ourselves, now,” Laila says.
Yasmin feels struck by the fierceness of Laila’s tone. She’s n
ever spoken to her like this before.
Yasmin stands up. “I wanted to help,” she says. “You’ve had a lot on your plate. I thought you’d be pleased to have a tidy room.”
Laila stands up too and looks at Yasmin. “Well, don’t.”
She definitely hasn’t seen this side to Laila before.
“What’s going on?” Hanif comes through the door.
“Mom’s been going through our stuff.”
“I haven’t!” Yasmin protests.
Hanif shrugs and goes to sit on his bed. “What’s the big deal?”
For a second, she thought that he would turn on her too. But he’s her boy. He’s always defended her, just like she defends him when Ayaan criticizes him for not living up to his impossible standards.
Laila stares at Hanif like he’s betrayed her by not taking her side. “This is our room, Hanif. And we’re not kids any more. We get to have some privacy.”
Yasmin holds up her hands. “Okay, okay. I’ll stay out of your room. Just tidy up, okay?”
“Sure,” Hanif says and starts packing his school bag.
Laila walks toward her and holds the door.
She wants me to leave, thinks Yasmin. My eleven-year-old daughter wants me to get out of a room in my own house.
“We’ll be out in a minute, okay, Mom?” Laila says.
Her face is still flushed, her eyes glassy. She may have crossed some line into teenage defiance but it’s more than that too: it’s not like Laila to over-react like this.
“I’ll wait for you downstairs,” Yasmin says.
Laila nods and closes the door on her.
* * *
True lights a cigarette and sits on the top step of the porch.
Sorry about this, Cedar … he whispers to the dawn sky. I’m finding things a bit hard right now …
He sees her emptying his packet of cigarettes into the sink and switching on the faucet.
I’m not going to watch you smoke your way to an early grave, she’d said, grabbing the sodden packet and throwing it in the trash.