The Children's Secret Read online

  After a few seconds, the first mother says, “We didn’t mean any harm—we were just staying—”

  “Well, don’t,” Eva jumps in. She’s on a roll. “Don’t just say anything. Not if you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  The second mother blinks. Then she puts on a forced smile and holds out a hand. “You’re new in town, aren’t you? I’m Zoe. Pleased to meet you.”

  Eva stares at Zoe’s hand but doesn’t take it. The mother lowers her hand back to her side.

  “I think we met—didn’t we?” the other mother says to Eva.

  “Yes,” Eva says weakly. “We did.”

  The mother leans in and smiles at Lily. “And this must be your daughter. I’m sure our daughters would love to play with you, wouldn’t they, Zoe?”

  They don’t know yet, Eva thinks. That Lily was there when Astrid got shot.

  Lily takes a step back from the two women.

  “It must be so very shocking—that this has happened when you’ve just got here,” Zoe says to Eva. “I mean, we’re shocked too, aren’t we, Sharon? Middlebrook isn’t the kind of place where things like this happen.”

  “And poor Priscilla.” Sharon shakes her head. “What she must be going through.”

  Zoe looks up at Eva. “Your husband works with her, doesn’t he?”

  Before she has the chance to answer, Lily cries out: “He’s here, Mum, look!”

  And then she’s off, running across the playground.

  Sharon and Zoe suck in their breath.

  “Wait up!” Lily’s voice bounces off the tarmac and the brick buildings of Brook Middle School. “BRYAR!”

  Bryar turns around. He stares at her, confused. And then she takes his hand and his face softens.

  The two mothers look at each other.

  Lily throws her arms around Bryar.

  “Oh!” says Zoe.

  “Your daughter …” Sharon starts.

  “… and Bryar are friends, yes,” Eva says.

  As Eva watches Lily standing in the playground, holding Bryar’s hand, she feels a rush of pride.

  Try to make some new friends today, Will had advised Lily over breakfast, adding emphasis to the word new. It was his way of telling her to stay away from the kids involved in the investigation.

  Will’s a good man. A good husband and father. And a brilliant academic: he specializes in legal ethics. If anyone knows right from wrong, it’s Will. But he doesn’t understand that what happened on Sunday will make Lily feel closer to the very kids he wants her to avoid. Because in this way, Lily’s like Eva: she understands that some things are more complicated than simple right and wrong.

  Eva hears the children and the parents and the teachers fall silent around Lily and Bryar, like a spotlight’s fallen on them.

  If those two mothers were gossiping about Abi and Cal’s involvement in the shooting, it was obvious that they—and the rest of the Middlebrook community—would have even more to say about the Wrights. The shooting had taken place on their property, in all probability, with Ben Wright’s pistol. It wouldn’t take much for them to make the next logical leap: that Bryar had pulled the trigger.

  Kaitlin stands beside Lily and Bryar, her head low, like Yasmin’s.

  Eva turns back to Zoe and Sharon.

  “I hope your daughters have a good first day of school,” she says.

  And then she walks across the playground toward Kaitlin.

  Eva feels the other parents moving their gaze from Bryar and Lily, holding hands, to her and Kaitlin.

  If they didn’t know that Lily was involved, they would now.

  Kaitlin looks at Eva. “Thanks for coming over,” she says.

  “Of course.”

  Eva had wanted to call Kaitlin to ask how she was doing, especially with Ben being held back for more questioning, but Will had told her to give the Wrights some space. He’d said it in the same tone that he’d used when advising Lily to make new friends.

  At first, Eva had thought that maybe he had a point. After all, if she hadn’t got so caught up with Kaitlin and Bryar and the party, Lily wouldn’t be facing all this on her first day of school.

  But standing here, looking at Kaitlin, she knows that blocking her out of her life isn’t an option. They’re in this together. And more than that: Kaitlin’s her friend.

  “I should have kept Bryar home,” Kaitlin says.

  Eva doesn’t know what a right decision looks like any more, but hiding from what’s going on isn’t going to do any of them any good. “I thought the same, about Lily, but I’ve changed my mind.” She glances over to Zoe and Sharon, who are still staring at her. “I think it’s good that they’re here.”

  “It’s just …”

  “Hard. I know.”

  “Yeah.”

  “But guess what?” Eva asks.

  Kaitlin looks up at her.

  Eva nods over at Bryar and Lily, who have taken off toward the main entrance to the school.

  “I reckon they’re better at this than we are,” Eva says. “They’ll be fine.”

  The school bell goes. A long, shrill ringing that shocks the children and parents and teachers out of their focus on Lily and Bryar. The children disappear into the school building. And then there’s no one left in the school yard but the parents.

  How different it would have been if things had gone smoothly on Sunday, thinks Eva. They’d have been worried about all the ordinary things mums are worried about when their kids start school: which friends and teachers they’d come home talking about; which activities they’d signed up for; whether they’d eat their packed lunches.

  The parents head back to their cars.

  A few of them stop to talk to the journalists. Anger sweeps over Eva again: as if those parents have any kind of valid insight into what happened on Sunday.

  When they get to Kaitlin’s car, Kaitlin turns around. Her eyes are watery. “I wanted to say that I understand if you don’t want to give Bryar music lessons any more—or have the kids over to play. There’ll be no hard feelings.”

  “I don’t ever give up on my students,” Eva says. “And Lily doesn’t give up on her friends, either. I’m afraid you’re stuck with us.”

  Kaitlin’s eyes well up. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, I’m sure.”

  Kaitlin’s tears spill out now, down her cheeks and onto her sweatshirt.

  Eva takes both of Kaitlin’s hands. “You haven’t done anything wrong—you know that, don’t you?”

  Kaitlin sniffs and looks up. “I don’t think many people would agree with you.”

  “What people think doesn’t equate to the truth, Kaitlin.”

  “It does in Middlebrook,” Kaitlin says.

  Eva squeezes Kaitlin’s hands. “Well, then, we’d better prove them wrong.”

  Kaitlin bites her bottom lip and nods. Eva can tell that she wants to believe that the gossip will die down; that people will come around to seeing things more reasonably; that Wynn’s arm will heal; that Astrid will wake up and be okay; that no one will be charged; that the investigation will conclude that it was just a terrible accident, a party gone wrong. And that, with time, people will forget.

  And Eva wants to believe it too. She has to believe it. Otherwise she’s not going to be able to cope with it all. The pregnancy. Supporting Lily. Navigating this crazy situation she’s in with Will, who seems more concerned with what Priscilla Carver thinks about him than with how his own family is doing.

  Otherwise, she might as well pack her bags and go back to England.

  CHAPTER

  21

  9.30 a.m.

  YASMIN SITS ON the bottom step of the staircase that runs through the middle of the house and feels the emptiness around her.

  She hugs her knees and looks out through the window at the empty swing set.

  I’ve arranged for them to be taught separately, Mrs. Markham told them when she greeted them in the playground.

  It was too complicated, she
explained, to create two classes.

  The twins had looked at each other, mortified.

  Yasmin had been desperate to intervene. To say that this wasn’t the kind of education she wanted for her children. That it was important that they should be with their friends. That separating them off like this would do nothing but draw more attention to them.

  But before Yasmin could say anything, Ayaan had shaken Mrs. Markham’s hand and thanked her for her trouble and said that was precisely the outcome he’d been hoping for.

  They’ll get one-to-one attention, he’d said in the car on the way home. What could be better?

  She hadn’t answered. Because if she had, she’d have told him that she didn’t want them to have one-to-one attention. She wanted them to be with the other children. Including the children who were at the party.

  So, again, she’d stayed quiet.

  Because she didn’t want to upset him.

  And because she was afraid. Not of him, but of her own feelings. About how this gulf was opening up between them and how she felt like she was the only one who was seeing it.

  Or worse. How maybe the gulf had been there from the beginning.

  She thought back to how it was when she first met him as a young architecture student at Columbia. He’d remained so steady in his faith; he dressed and spoke and walked as though he’d never left Pakistan; he didn’t touch a drop of alcohol; he stayed away from parties. She, on the other hand, had thrown herself into student life. She’d loved wearing jeans and T-shirts and cutting her hair short and partying through the night.

  And yet they’d been drawn to each other. Because there’s something powerful about meeting someone who comes from home, when that home is far away—someone who understands where you come from, even if it’s the place you longed to escape. Being with Ayaan made Yasmin feel safe. In fact, having him at her side gave her the courage to embrace her new life. The steadier he was, the freer she felt to cast off her past, knowing that he would be her anchor: she could stray as far as she wanted because, in him, there was always a way home.

  Back then, when they were young, they’d embraced each other’s differences.

  She’d been impressed by how devout he was—how he prayed five times a day, no matter what else was going on. She’d been touched by his shyness, by how hard he worked and how faithful he was to their homeland. And, she believes, he’d admired her. For being so outgoing. For casting off her old life in Pakistan and adapting so easily to American life and for helping him step out into this new world.

  They’d admired the very things in each other that now seem to separate them. And, she supposes, they’d both kidded themselves that, in time, they could change each other.

  If they were more courageous, they’d face the truth head-on: that they’ve drifted apart. That the dynamic they had doesn’t work any more. But instead, they’ve both kept up the pretence. Because it’s easier. And because she can’t bear the thought of splitting up her family.

  Ayaan has thrown himself into his work: building the mosque has become an obsession that allows him to ignore anything that’s happening in his personal life.

  And, in the meantime, she hides away in this big house, unable to embrace her life in America in the way she longs to—in the way she had as a student—for fear of disappointing him.

  She feels trapped.

  Which is why she takes longs walks at night when the others are asleep.

  Which is why she’d gone to the Wrights’ party. Because, for once, she wanted to make her own decision. Because the Wrights were exactly the kind of people she wanted to be friends with when she moved to America: kind, open-hearted people. Because Priscilla Carver and her way of hovering over Middlebrook, pressuring people to adapt to her views, was what she’d wanted to escape when she left Pakistan.

  The walls of the house press in on her. The house that Ayaan bought and set about renovating as soon as they decided to move here. He wanted to give her a place that reminded her of home, he’d said. By the time he was finished, it was the tallest, showiest house in town.

  She hates it.

  She doesn’t want to be reminded of home.

  And she doesn’t want to stand out. It embarrasses her.

  If she could choose, she’d live in a wood frame house with an American flag hanging outside the front door—the same kind of flag that hung outside the Wrights’ house.

  But wanting those things was obviously wrong: she’d taken the twins to the party and now Astrid was lying in hospital, in a coma. And her children are caught up in a criminal investigation. And no matter how much money Ayaan pays that lawyer, he can’t make it go away: the fact that they were there when Astrid got shot.

  Yasmin stands up.

  I need to be outside, she thinks. Away from this house. I need air and sky.

  She runs upstairs, gets changed out of the blue salwar kameez she’d worn to take the children to school and throws on an old pair of jeans. She finds one of her old sweatshirts from Columbia at the back of the closet. She stops at the landing mirror and ties up her long, dark hair in a messy bun, like she’s seen American women do. And then, barely recognizing her reflection, she smiles. She feels lighter already.

  Laila’s feet would be too small for Yasmin!

  She leaves behind her purse and her phone and goes outside.

  She walks down to the brook at the bottom of their drive, the brook that runs alongside Main Street and heads up through the woods to Middlebrook Pond. It had all but run dry through the summer drought but after a few days of rain, it’s filling up again.

  She keeps walking.

  Past Eva’s house.

  Past St. Mary’s church.

  Past the old white clapboard house with the wrap-around porch that’s been standing empty, a for sale sign in the yard, for over a year now.

  Past the reporters in front of the general store, clutching paper cups of coffee and talking into their phones. She’s glad that she’s changed out of her formal clothes, that nothing will draw attention to her.

  Yasmin keeps going, up the steep incline of the valley until she gets to Woodwind Stables.

  Even from the bottom of the drive, she can see the police tape; the lieutenant’s car parked in front of the stable next to Ben’s red truck.

  She imagines Kaitlin and Ben sitting in their house, trying to get their heads around all of this. She wishes she could tell them something—anything—to make them feel better. She wants them to know that she doesn’t blame them.

  Of course, everyone’s focusing on Priscilla and Astrid. God knows what Priscilla must be going through. But Yasmin can’t help thinking that it must be worse for Kaitlin and Ben, the parents who hosted the party where a kid was shot. And, of course Yasmin had picked up on the rumors that were already beginning to circulate around the village and the school playground. Bryar was a strange kid, they said. On the spectrum. And he didn’t have friends, not like normal kids. As if these facts automatically made him the shooter.

  The shooter.

  Yasmin hates the phrase. Bryar is eleven years old, the same age as her twins. A child, still.

  Yes, it would be kind to show them some support.

  But then Ayaan’s words rush back to her: We can’t afford to be caught up in this, Yas.

  If he found out that she’d been to see the Wrights, he’d be furious.

  She turns to go but as she does, she notices a copy of the Boston Chronicle sticking out of the Wrights’ mailbox. Even though it’s curled up and wrapped in plastic, she knows that the front page is filled with news about the shooting on Sunday.

  She pulls the paper out of the mailbox, tears open the plastic and shakes it out until it’s straight.

  Along the banner at the top of the front page, there’s a picture of Reverend Avery, and next to it the words:

  Turn to p10 for an insight into the Playdate Shooting from Middlebrook’s minister.

  Avery gave the press an interview?

  Yas
min’s about to turn to the article when her eyes scan down the rest of the page. And that’s when she sees them: the series of headshots; the faces of the kids who were in the stable that afternoon. Their faces have been blurred out but it’s obvious who they are.

  Bryar’s face is in the middle, his picture larger than the others.

  And next to him, there’s a photograph of Hanif and Laila, with the caption: Muslim twins involved in Playdate Shooting.

  The Boston Chronicle

  The Playdate Shooting

  Lydia Richards: Chief Editor

  On Sunday, September 1, an eleven-year-old girl was shot in the chest at a children’s party in Middlebrook, NH. She’s currently in a coma in Colebrook Hospital, fighting for her life.

  You might be forgiven for not having heard of the small town of Middlebrook. Drive a little too fast along US-3 on your way to the Canadian border, and you’ll miss it. As one of the locals, eighty-seven-year-old Judy Creech, proudly puts it: “Nothing ever happens here.” Which makes the shooting all the more shocking.

  This wasn’t a high school massacre. No drugs were involved. And it wasn’t an act of terrorism—not that we know of, anyway. What’s more, the firearm used wasn’t one of the controversial semiautomatics that lie at the heart of the gun control debate. The weapon used to shoot Astrid Carver was an everyday handgun. And it’s the ordinariness of this crime that makes it shocking.

  This is the kind of shooting that the mother of the victim, Dr. Priscilla Carver, refers to as “the real crisis in the story of American gun-control.” When asked to expand, Dr. Carver explains that: “The everyday exposure of children to firearms is a crime, one that Americans should wake up to and legislate against.” Dr. Carver, a law professor at the Daniel Webster Law School, is known for her strong views on gun control.

  The screenshot from a Facebook page Dr. Carver set up (pictured right), shows the photographs (blurred out to protect the privacy of the suspects) of the nine children who were in the stable where the shooting took place. Any one of them, it would seem, could have shot Dr. Carver’s daughter. Why Astrid was made a target is still unclear. Lieutenant Mesenberg, the detective in charge of the investigation, says that all the children and families concerned have been interviewed. “We are doing everything we can to find out what happened on Sunday afternoon,” she told one of our reporters.