by Nina Monroe
She hated him smoking. Said that it was selfish to destroy your body when there were people who loved you—and that it was inconsistent with how they were trying to lead their lives. Cedar had such fucking high standards and now that she was gone he felt like he had to work even harder to live up to them.
Okay, you win. He stubs out the cigarette. You always win.
He stands up from the porch steps and pushes through the swing door back into the cabin.
His body aches with tiredness; he wasn’t able to sleep last night.
He can’t get it out of his mind: that awful picture of Phoenix that’s been going around, making it look like he shot Astrid—and worse: like he enjoyed it. The reporter might have tried to disguise who it was, but there was no mistaking it was Phoenix.
True looks over at the mattresses pushed into a corner of the room. Wynn’s curled up against Skye, his cast sticking out at an angle to the side of his head. Skye’s small, loopy writing covers every inch now. By getting Wynn to focus on the story of a mother bear and her cubs who come to live in an abandoned cabin in the woods, Skye has taken her little brother’s mind off what’s going on in the real world. She’d learned this trick from Cedar—deflecting attention when a worry set in. Cedar would do it with Phoenix too. She was the one who taught him to climb trees.
True walks up to the mattress and leans in toward his daughter. He brushes her dark hair out of her eyes and kisses her forehead.
Then he turns to Phoenix, lying off to one side, pressed up close to the wall of the cabin. Lumen lies at his feet. Ever since Cedar died, Lumen’s followed Phoenix around, as if knowing that he was the one who’d feel Cedar’s absence most.
He looks at his son’s hands resting, palm up, on the sheets, thick calluses on his skin from climbing trees, his forearms scratched by branches and brambles. His hair is a tangle of matted knots. He can’t remember the last time he saw Phoenix taking a bath or running a comb through his hair.
Is all this my fault? True whispers to the night sky. Have I failed them?
Lieutenant Mesenberg had brought Phoenix in for questioning more times than any of the other children. Even Skye commented on it. He was worried that they suspected him above the other children: that his monosyllabic answers, his shrugs, the way he slumped in his chair, avoiding eye contact, made it seems as if he was asking to be found guilty.
Wasn’t that what that photographer had tried to show in the awful picture he took? That Phoenix was letting the world know he was the one who’d done this?
True remembers Cedar lying in the birthing pool holding their firstborn son, his small body slick with blood and mucus, his umbilical cord still connecting them.
As True leant over to get his first good look at his son, Phoenix had looked right back at him, his eyes wide open. Only a few minutes old and his brow was full of knots, as if he knew already that there was something wrong with the world.
We’re going to have to keep you out of trouble, little guy, Cedar had said, kissing the top of his head.
And she’d been right, of course. As he grew up, Phoenix found his own path. He battered down the thorns and brambles; stuffed his pocket with sharp stones; whittled sticks into spears; asked True to take him hunting when his arms were still too small to hold a rifle.
Cedar was never worried about him, though. We just have to remind him to use that energy for good, she’d say.
But she was the one who did that—who, time after time, steered Phoenix away from the shadows and back to the light. True had never been able to get through to him like she had.
And after she died, it felt like the distance between him and Phoenix had grown.
He strokes the back of his son’s tangled hair.
Had Phoenix done it? Had he taken that gun? Been over-whelmed by the shadows and pulled the trigger—and had True failed to see it coming?
He tries to master his breathing, like he teaches his yoga students to do, but it doesn’t work—he’s snatching at the air, his breath ragged and forced.
I’m sorry, Cedar, I’m so sorry, he whispers.
And that’s when he sees it. Just a corner, sticking out from under the mattress. He lifts it out.
“What the hell . . ?”
It’s a cell phone. Had Phoenix found it somewhere in the woods—or worse, stolen it? And why was he hiding it?
* * *
Kaitlin stands on the porch watching Bryar cycling down the driveway, red and yellow leaves falling around him in the morning breeze.
For the past few days, he and Lily have been meeting at the crossroads in town and cycling into school together. Never in her wildest dreams could she have imagined her son going off like this, early in the morning, to meet a friend. It should have made her glad, but all she can think about is the police investigation hanging over them.
Kaitlin also has a nagging feeling that the reason Bryar keeps going off with Lily is so he can avoid answering her questions about what happened at the party.
She walks back into the kitchen and pours herself a black coffee. Ben comes down the stairs, his hair still wet from the shower. She still can’t get used to seeing him hanging around the house all day in his home clothes. It’s driving him crazy, not being able to work.
“I’m going out to chop some wood before it rains again,” he says, heading to the door.
“Don’t you want some breakfast?”
“I’ll get some later.”
He’s been avoiding her. Working for hours outside. Sleeping on the couch.
“We need to talk, Ben,” Kaitlin says. “About Astrid—about Bryar.” About us, she thinks.
“We can talk later,” he says, putting on his jacket.
She walks toward him. “Please, Ben.”
He looks at her and his eyes seem to soften. “Bryar didn’t do anything wrong. Neither did I. You know that, right?” he says.
She waits a second before responding. She doesn’t know if their relationship is strong enough right now to weather another argument. But she can’t keep swallowing it down.
“Whoever shot Astrid used your pistol, Ben.”
His eyes cloud over. He pulls a cap over his head and opens the door.
She reaches for his arm. “You can’t walk away from this.”
“If you think this is my fault, Katie, there’s nothing to talk about.”
“I don’t think it’s your fault. I know you’d never hurt anyone—not intentionally.”
He turns around. “Not intentionally?”
“We have firearms in our home. We have to take responsibility for that.”
“So you’re on Priscilla’s side now?”
“Priscilla? No. Of course not. I’m not on anyone’s side.”
“Well, you sure as hell aren’t on my side, Katie.”
He turns back around and steps out onto the porch.
“You’re not listening to me,” she says. “I’m allowed to question the way we’ve been living. I’m allowed to ask myself whether we were right—”
He keeps walking, down the porch steps and across the yard to the stable.
“Just tell me one thing, Ben,” she calls out.
He stops walking.
“Was he any good?” Her heart is hammering.
He doesn’t move.
“When you took Bryar to the shooting range—when he was ten—was he any good?” she asks again.
Slowly, Ben turns around. “What?”
“I know he didn’t like it. That he didn’t want to go again. But you still taught him to shoot, didn’t you? You wanted him to understand how guns work.”
“Yes.”
“So, I’m asking …” Her voice is shaking. “Was he a good shot?”
Ben looks at her as though he doesn’t recognize her.
Then he goes quiet. His shoulders drop.
“Ben?”
“Yeah, Katie. He was a good shot.”
* * *
Avery sits in front of Bill at the kitchen table.
�
��I’ve been watching the news,” he says.
She can hear the agitation in his voice.
“What a mess,” he adds.
Over Bill’s shoulder, Avery looks out through the window at the steeple of St. Mary’s. She wonders if he showed up early to catch her off guard. She hopes that Abi and Cal are still asleep—and that she can get Bill out of the house before they wake up. The last thing they need right now is to bump into him.
“To think it was meant to be a prayer meeting,” he goes on. “Looked more like a political rally. Couldn’t you make it—I don’t know, more private?”
“Vetting who comes to a prayer meeting kind of defeats the point, Bill.”
As soon as Bill found out about the shooting on Sunday, he called to say that he wanted to place Abi and Cal in a new foster home, at least until after the investigation. And then, when he read the interview she gave to the reporter, he hit the roof. But she’d done everything she could to persuade him that they needed stability—and that meant staying with her. Bill knows they’ve been doing better with her than with anyone else. He knows she’s a good foster parent, and that this is Abi and Cal’s chance of a better life. Reluctantly, he’d agreed.
But then the media storm just got worse. The attacks on the mosque. The involvement of Governor Warnes. And he’s right, the prayer meeting didn’t turn out as she’d hoped.
If Avery could magic Abi and Cal away to some wonderful, safe place where they didn’t have to deal with any of this, she’d do it in a heartbeat. But the truth of it is that this is as good as it gets for them. They have a home here. And she loves them. She wants them to stay with her for good.
“At least you kept Abi and Cal away from the prayer meeting,” Bill says. “That was wise.”
Avery couldn’t take credit for that. She’d wanted them to attend but they refused to come. And then they must have left the house without telling her because, the next thing, she knew they were walking back through the woods with the other children.
And they’d looked happy, which had felt incongruous, given the circumstances. But it had offered her a moment of relief, seeing them with their new friends. She wishes she could make Bill understand that despite what’s happened in the past week, Abi and Cal are better off here.
“Avery—are you listening to me?”
“Yes, of course.”
“We’re going to have to make a decision about their future. We have to think about what’s best for them.”
“I know.”
“They still haven’t said anything?” Bill asks. “To you—or to the police?”
“No, they haven’t.”
“Look, I’m getting pressure from above. All this attention hasn’t been doing our cause much good—”
“Your cause?”
“The Fostering and Adoption Agency depends on positive press coverage. Success stories. I know it sounds crass but if we’re going to keep finding families for our kids, we need to make sure that our image is clean as possible. Foster families and prospective adopters know that these kids come from difficult backgrounds—but a shooting in a foster placement …” He whistles through his teeth. “It doesn’t look good, Avery.”
“Cal and Abi are happy here, Bill. I know that things look bad right now, but they like living with me. They like going to school. Abi’s made the basketball team. Cal’s really hit it off with his art teacher. You should see his hands, they’re always covered in paint.” She smiles. “And they’re making friends.”
He raises his eyebrows. “You mean the kids from the party—the ones involved in the shooting?”
“They’re good kids, Bill. All of them.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I live here. Because I’m their minister. Because kids aren’t bad.”
“But one of them shot Astrid Carver.”
She takes a breath. “Please, Bill, we need more time. I can make this work.”
Bill drops his shoulders and sighs. “Look, let me cut to the chase. Do you think there’s any chance that Abi or Cal are involved?”
“Seriously?”
He holds out his palms. “Could either of them have pulled the trigger? Because if they did, this going to be one hell of a shit storm—”
“One minute you’re complaining about them being involved with kids who might have shot Astrid Carver—and now you’re suggesting Abi or Cal might have shot her themselves?” Not for the first time, Avery feels that Bill’s priorities are off. “They’re good kids, you know that, Bill.”
“You keep saying that, but good kids do stupid stuff. Especially kids who’ve had a lifetime’s worth of bad role models.” He pauses. “You said it yourself to that reporter. We don’t really know them. All we know is that they’ve been exposed to a whole load of crap—”
“You know Abi’s background.” She shakes her head. “Abi loves it here. She wouldn’t have gone near that gun—especially after what happened with her mom’s boyfriend. Come on, Bill, they deserve a chance.”
“I’m sticking my neck out for you—you get that, right?” he says. “If I were following strict protocol, those kids would be in a new foster home already.”
“I understand. And I’m grateful. But we’re doing this for the kids. When you brought them to me, you thought this could be their last stop. We talked about adoption …”
His eyes go wide. “You’re still considering that?” he asks.
“Of course.”
He shakes his head. “You get that it’ll be a long shot—after all this.”
“Yes, I know.” She pauses. “But they belong here, Bill. They just do.”
He stares at her, blinking. Something seems to shift in him. “Look, I’ll try my best.”
“Thank you, Bill.”
“Just keep them out of trouble, okay?”
“Of course.”
“And don’t get their hopes up.”
“Okay.”
“And don’t get your hopes up.”
“I won’t,” she lies. Because she can’t help it. She wants them to stay with her—more than she’s ever wanted anything.
He stands up and pushes in his chair. “I’ll be in touch after the weekend. And if there are any developments, let me know.”
“Of course.”
She leads him out to his car and watches him drive away. She remembers the day he brought Abi and Cal here: how she’d stood outside the church for ages, just in case they arrived early. How tentatively they’d stepped out of the back of Bill’s car, looking around as though they’d landed on the moon. And the truth was that Middlebrook might as well have been the moon compared to where they came from. It would take them a while to trust her, she knew that. But she’d felt it in her gut: that they were here to stay.
She’s bought them a bit more time; it’s not much, but it’s something.
When she goes back inside, she heads up to the bathroom and bunches up their towels and the dirty clothes from their hamper and brings them down to the laundry room. She remembers a mother in her congregation telling her, once, how laundry defined her life: how the endless cycle of cleaning her children’s clothes shaped the patterns of her days and weeks. And how, when they left for college, it was the empty washing machine, more than anything, that made her heart ache.
Avery pushes the white towels into the drum. And then she stops and takes one of them out again.
It’s streaked with paint. Which isn’t unusual: Cal’s things are always covered in stains from the art room. She loves that Cal has a passion for art; it gives her hope that he’ll find his way in life, one that makes him happy.
But the streaks of color on the towel trigger something in her mind.
Before she’s aware that she’s given her legs the instruction to move, she’s running through the house, clutching the stained towel to her chest, and she keeps running until she gets to the kitchen, and then to the recycling bin. As she lifts an old newspaper from the pile, she knows why her legs took her here—a
nd why there was a flash of recognition in her mind when she saw the marked towel.
The red, black, and yellow stains on the towel—they’re the same colors that were used in the attack on the mosque.
CHAPTER
37
7.30 a.m.
Show: Rise and Shine America
Title: “The Playdate Shooting”
Date: Sep. 6, 2019, 7.30 a.m.
Topic: Gun control
Barker: Thank you for coming in, Dr. Carver, especially at this difficult time.
Carver: [Nods]
Barker: Let’s get straight to the heart of this debate. You’ve called this “A Crisis in Modern American Parenting”—could you expand on that?
Carver: Yes. A crisis that no one seems to be willing to talk about. The high school shootings, sure, they get the big headlines. The debates about lockdown drills. But the real crisis is happening in our everyday lives. In our homes—at the playdates we blindly take our children to. The parties …
Barker: Like the one that took place last Sunday afternoon?
Carver: Exactly.
Barker: And you’d warned your friends—parents from the Middlebrook community—that it would be dangerous to take their children to this party?
Carver: Absolutely.
Barker: And they didn’t listen?
Carver: One of the parents—she’s new to the community—persuaded them to go. Said it would be a bit of harmless fun. [Stares into the camera] She has no idea what it means to live in a country where guns are part of people’s everyday lives: it was naïve—more than naïve, reckless—to encourage parents to take their children to a party on that property.
Barker: A property on which firearms are kept, is that right?
Carver: Yes.
Barker: Lieutenant Mesenberg has gone on record to say that the gun in question was locked up in a safe.
Carver: Do you know easy it is for a kid to memorize a six-digit code?
Barker: You believe that the child whose party it was had access to the safe—that he knew the code?
Carver: It’s more than likely, yes.
Barker: And you believe that he may be responsible for shooting your daughter?