The Children's Secret Read online

  Yeah, until today, Abi and Cal had worked really hard to stay out of trouble. But now everything’s gone wrong again, like deep down, she always knew it would.

  Which is why Cal isn’t talking to her. And why he won’t hold her hand.

  Because he’s upset.

  Because he knows it too.

  People will think it’s their fault.

  The kids whose mom’s in jail.

  The kids who’ve never stayed in one foster home for more than a few months.

  The kids who come from a place where trouble grows like weeds between the cracks on the sidewalk.

  * * *

  Lily sits on the landing outside her parents’ bedroom, her back pressed into the wall. The walls are so thin, she can hear everything they’re saying.

  They’ve been going around in circles, arguing about the same things over and over, neither of them listening to what the other one is saying.

  It starts with Dad asking Mum to go over what happened.

  And Mum saying she doesn’t know what happened, because she wasn’t in the stable.

  Then Dad asks Mum why she didn’t tell him that Dr. Carver had warned her off the party. That if he’d known that she was against it, he’d never have let Lily go.

  And Mum says that that’s exactly why she didn’t tell him. And then she says that Kaitlin is her friend and she’d wanted to support her. And that Bryar is Lily’s friend, which is even more important. That Lily needs friends right now.

  And Mum was right, wasn’t she? Bryar is Lily’s friend. Which is why it upset her so much when Astrid came into the stable trying to spoil the party—undoing the work Lily had done to make Bryar feel good about himself. You don’t have a right to do that, Lily remembers thinking as she watched Astrid striding around the stable like she owned the place.

  It had taken Lily by surprise: how angry she’d felt. How protective of Bryar. How, at that moment, she’d have done anything to stand up for him and to make that horrible girl go away.

  Mum and Dad keep arguing.

  Dad says that you don’t put your child in danger just to support people. Or just because your kids are friends.

  And when Dad says that—about putting Lily in danger—Mum goes quiet and Lily can picture her face: it’s the same face she had when she saw Astrid lying on the ground, bleeding: confused and scared and guilty and like it was all her fault.

  And after the quiet, Mum starts crying.

  When Mum called Dad to say what had happened, he cycled straight from the university to the station. When they moved to America he said he wanted to get fit so he bought a second-hand bike and he’s been using it to get around.

  At least the roads are safer here, Mum had said as they watched Dad seting off on his bike on his first day of work.

  And it wasn’t only the roads. Everything in Middlebrook felt safer than London. That’s what Mum and Dad were always saying when she asked why they’d moved here.

  London isn’t a place to raise kids, they’d said. You’ll have a proper childhood here. No traffic and noise and pollution. No gangs with knives. Just fresh air and trees and ponds to swim in summer and mountains to sled down in winter.

  They’d made it sound like nothing bad could ever happen here.

  Lily listens to the water rushing through the brook at the bottom of the drive.

  She closes her eyes and she feels the thunderstorm rising and falling.

  She wonders whether, if the storm is big enough, it could knock the whole house down. Maybe it could wash her and Dad and Mum and all their things into the brook that runs through town and out into big rivers and lakes and finally to the sea. Maybe the storm could take them home to England.

  * * *

  In Colebrook Hospital, Wynn blinks open his eyes. The first thing he sees is his father, sitting asleep in the chair beside him.

  Wynn tries to pull himself up but there’s a sharp pain in his arm so he slumps back down.

  He looks around the room. He doesn’t understand where he is or why his body hurts so much.

  There’s a window to his right. It’s dark outside. Raindrops hit the glass making hard pop, pop, pop sounds.

  And then he remembers.

  Being in the stable.

  Finding it so fun, hanging out with the older kids with no grown-ups watching.

  And how it had been the best feeling in the world—petting that horse: kind of strong and soft at the same time.

  And then Astrid showed up.

  And made Bryar take that pistol out of the safe.

  And both those things—the gun and the angry girl who lives in the cottage on the hill—had made all the happy feelings in Wynn’s body seep away.

  Wynn had seen Dad’s hunting rifle a million times, but not a pistol like this. Not unless it was on a police officer.

  Whenever Wynn asked Dad to have a go with his rifle, Dad always said the same thing: No, Wynn. Guns aren’t toys. You’ll have to wait until you’re older.

  Dad hadn’t even let Phoenix have a go yet, and Phoenix was much older than Wynn. It made Phoenix mad, that Dad wouldn’t take him hunting—so mad that sometimes he’d threaten to take Dad’s rifle when he wasn’t looking and go off on his own.

  At first, Wynn had thought that maybe the pistol Bryar took out of the safe was a pretend gun. But then he got to hold it and it was so heavy it hurt his hand, and he realized, suddenly, that it wasn’t a toy. It was real.

  Wynn blinks open his eyes and looks back at Dad, asleep in the chair. He doesn’t want to be here alone with his thoughts, in this strange room that isn’t their cabin.

  “Dad …” Wynn whispers.

  Dad shifts slightly, his mouth moving.

  “Dad …?” he says again, louder this time.

  Dad opens his eyes and sits up stiffly. “Wynn!”

  Dad’s eyes get watery.

  “Oh, Wynn—thank God.” Dad gets up out of his chair and comes to stand above Wynn. He leans over and holds Wynn’s face in his hands and kisses his forehead for a long, long time.

  * * *

  In the ICU, Astrid feels her chest pulling so tight she thinks that if she breathes, it’s going to tear open.

  Her arm burns where the needle presses into her vein.

  Her skin burns too. The back of her neck. Her forehead. Her legs.

  She feels Mom’s hand in hers, gripping her fingers and then going slack as she cycles in and out of sleep.

  Sometimes, she hears the footsteps of a nurse coming in. Leaning over her. Checking.

  She tries to talk to the nurse, but the words won’t come.

  And when she tries to open her eyes, her lids stay shut like someone’s pressing down on them.

  And every time she tries to push herself up to sitting, her muscles go limp.

  And then she gets tired again and drifts back into herself.

  One moment she’s running through the fields, her legs brushing the long, dry grass.

  And then she’s in the stable, falling, the horse screaming beside her.

  And then there’s whispering. Everyone’s talking over each other in these hushed, panicky voices.

  As her mind begins to slip, she hears one of them yell out, loud enough to shut everyone else up: We don’t tell anyone!

  She’d wanted to open her eyes to see who’d said it, but they were pressed shut.

  No one, okay? the voice went on.

  There was a beat of silence.

  And then another kid whispers: Okay.

  And the others join in. She hears them whispering above her: Okay … okay … okay …

  And she knows they’re making a pact. A deeper pact than any of them has ever made before in their lives.

  And there’s a brief gap, a space between when the children stand, looking down at her, having made their promise, and when the grown-ups come running into the stable.

  And after that, everything goes black.

  CHAPTER

  13

  9 a.m.

>   “I UNDERSTAND HOW SHAKEN up you must be by all this.” Mrs. Markham, the principal of Brook Middle School, folds her hands on her desk.

  Yasmin notices Ayaan’s leg jiggling up and down with impatience.

  “Rest assured that we’re putting every provision in place to support the children. I’ve called a faculty meeting for later this morning.”

  It’s Labor Day. A final day of fun before school starts. But no one in Middlebrook would pay attention to that, not after what happened yesterday.

  Yasmin doesn’t even know why they’re here.

  She twists her head round toward the door. The twins are sitting on chairs outside the office, waiting. This morning, when they came downstairs, their faces were gray with tiredness. They barely touched their breakfast.

  “This is a small community,” Mrs. Markham says. “We pull together in times like these—”

  Ayaan interrupts her. “We would like to separate the twins from the other children.”

  Yasmin looks back round. They haven’t discussed this. Ayaan has barely talked to her since last night.

  Mrs. Markham furrows her brow and says, “Separate them?”

  “Yes. From the children involved—in all this.” He swipes his hand through the air.

  Our children are involved in all this, Yasmin wants to say. In a few hours, they’re taking the twins back to the police station for more questioning.

  “I’m not sure I understand, Mr. Sayeed,” Mrs. Markham says.

  Ayaan holds up a hand and starts counting them off. “I would like you to make sure that our children are kept away from Lily Day, Bryar Wright and Abi Johnston.” He pauses. “I gather the others are in different grades, though I’d appreciate your support in making sure that the twins don’t come into contact with those children either. Perhaps you could relay this information to your teachers at the staff meeting.”

  Mrs. Markham clears her throat. “I realize this is still very raw, Mr. Sayed. But this is a complicated situation.”

  Ayaan stands up. “They’re not to be in the same class. I think I’ve made myself clear.”

  Mrs. Markham’s cheeks flush pink. She holds out her palms. “Mr. Sayed, there is only one sixth grade class.”

  “It seems obvious to me, then, that you should create two classes.”

  “I’m afraid we don’t have the teachers—or the resources—to create another class. We’re a small school—”

  Mrs. Markham shoots Yasmin a look, hoping she might intervene.

  Ayaan stands up and takes his rain jacket from the back of his chair, making it clear that the discussion is over.

  Mrs. Markham comes out from behind her desk. “Mr. Sayed—maybe we could talk this through a little more. I hear your concerns, but—”

  “I’m sure you’ll work it out, Mrs. Markham. There must be other parents, like us, who are worried about their children. Creating a new class will, I’m certain, be welcomed. Like you said, your aim is to do everything in your power to support the children.”

  Mrs. Markham stands in the middle of the room, stunned.

  Ayaan walks to the door.

  She clears her throat again. “Mr. Sayed. If I may. Under circumstances such as these, we’ve often found that it’s best to keep things as normal as possible for the children. Separating them out—creating barriers—sends the wrong message. They need to work through this together—”

  Ayaan spins round. “Under circumstances such as these?”

  “Yes—”

  He takes a step back toward her. “You mean, when a child gets shot?”

  Mrs. Markham shrinks under his words. Yasmin feels sorry for her. She wants to tell her that Ayaan does this—that he pushes and pushes until he gets what he wants. He’s not a bad man, he’s just stubborn and determined and isn’t always good at listening.

  “Are they common to you, these circumstances?” Ayaan asks, his gaze level with hers.

  “No—of course not—”

  “Well, then, perhaps you need to revise your methods. Tomorrow morning, my wife will be bringing our children to school. And I look forward to hearing about their new class.”

  He turns back around and walks to the door, opening it just wide enough for Yasmin to see the side of Laila’s body. She wonders how much the twins heard.

  “Mrs. Sayed?” Mrs. Markham looks at Yasmin.

  She’s giving Yasmin a final chance to say something. She should speak up for her children. For all the children who were at the party on Sunday afternoon. But instead, she looks down at the brown squares on Mrs. Markham’s rug and stays quiet. Like she’s stayed quiet ever since Ayaan stormed into the police station last night. She knows that she has to make it up to him: for taking the kids to the party without telling him; for going against Priscilla’s advice; for not supervising them better; for drinking that gin-laced iced tea handed to her by True Bowen. For believing that she could be like the other moms and decide things for herself.

  Eventually, Mrs. Markham turns away from her and says, “I’ll see what I can do.”

  * * *

  The four of them drive home in silence. Yasmin and the twins follow Ayaan into the house. He pulls on the high-vis jacket he wears on the construction site. If it hadn’t been for the meeting—if it hadn’t been for what happened yesterday—he would have left for work already.

  The twins stand in the middle of the hallway, looking to their parents for instructions.

  Yasmin waits for Ayaan to say something, but he just ignores them.

  “Why don’t you go to your room for a while?” Yasmin says.

  “Will the police want to talk to us again today?” Laila asks, her eyes wide.

  “Probably, yes. I imagine there’s a great deal for them to sort out—”

  “You’re not going to the police station,” Ayaan talks over her. “I’m meeting a lawyer up at the site. I don’t want the twins involved in the investigation.”

  “I don’t think it’s up to us—” Yasmin starts.

  Ayaan looks at her and blinks. “Our children can’t be interrogated without our consent. And it’s obvious they had nothing to do with this—”

  “We don’t know what happened, Ayaan. We need to help the police as much as we can—”

  “Help the police?”

  “Yes. To get to the bottom of what happened.”

  She feels the twins, staring at her.

  “Please go to your rooms,” Ayaan says to them.

  The twins disappear up the stairs.

  Ayaan turns to Yasmin. “We need to distance ourselves from this, Yas. You know that.”

  “For the mosque—”

  “For our future here. As a family.” He walks to the front door and starts pulling on his boots. “We’re on a visa. If the USCIS find out that our children are involved in a criminal investigation, we can say goodbye to our lives in America. All my work here will have been for nothing.” He’s facing her squarely now. His voice is manic with tiredness. “The Boston Chronicle called my site manager last night and asked whether our twins were involved in the shooting. Do you realize how this looks?”

  At first, Yasmin thought he was angry that she’d put their children in danger. But she knows it’s not really that. The kids are safe. He’s not even interested in their future here as a family. It’s his future here he’s worried about. His reputation. His work.

  He opens the front door.

  She calls after him. “Ayaan?”

  He doesn’t answer. She walks after him and catches his elbow. “About separating the twins from the other children—”

  He turns to face her.

  “I think Mrs. Markham’s right. It might send a better message if … if we don’t,” she says.

  “A better message? What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I think it might be best to keep Hanif and Laila with the other children. To show some support—”

  He stares at her, incredulous. “You want us to support the children who got the twins in
volved in this?”

  “We were all there, Ayaan. The parents. The kids. We’re in this together. We can’t pretend—”

  “The mosque opens in four days, Yas. Do you realize that?”

  “Of course—I know. But isolating the twins—”

  “We’re not isolating the twins, we’re protecting them.”

  “From what?”

  “Bad associations.”

  “Bad associations? What happened was an accident. They’re kids. They made a mistake. But they’re kids, Ayaan. Good kids. And their parents are good parents. We all want the same thing for our children: for them to be safe and happy. To make the right choices.” She stops for a second and then says, “But sometimes things go wrong.”

  “Things don’t just go wrong. We let them go wrong—by the decisions we make. And we are different, Yas. We come from a different culture—a different religion. It’s our duty to stay clear of anything that could taint us.”

  “But we live here—in America. If we’re going to be part of this community, we can’t keep removing ourselves—”

  He holds out his hand like he’s trying to block her words. “You got this one wrong, Yasmin. Now let me sort it out.”

  CHAPTER

  14

  Midday

  THEY KNOW, ALREADY, that today is different.

  The dragonflies that brush their wings against the rain-soaked grass outside St. Mary’s church.

  The rainbow-green hummingbirds that flit between the pines by the cemetery.

  The last of the monarch caterpillars that hang off the milk-weed, weaving their cocoons.

  The bullfrogs, their goggle eyes blinking above the water of the brook that swells and rushes along Main Street.

  They know that on this Labor Day, Ben Wright won’t pull his grill from the back of his red truck.

  That True Bowen won’t open his ice-box full of trout caught from Middlebrook Pond.

  That the farmer who owns the field next to Woodwind Stables won’t bring his bag of corn to throw on the grill.