“Are we alone?” Frances asked, surveying the room. It was a furnished apartment: standard-issue hotel furniture and artwork. No personal touches.
“Yes,” Daisy answered in a small voice.
“Are we safe?”
The girl nodded. “David’s my friend. He’s not dangerous.” Then her face crumpled. “At least, I don’t think he is.”
Who the hell is David? How did you meet him? What are you doing, alone and hungover, in his apartment? But now was not the time for an inquisition.
“I brought supplies,” Frances said instead, digging in the bag. She extracted a bottle of electrolyte drink and a small container of antinausea pills. “This will rehydrate you and stop the vomiting.”
Daisy accepted the drink and removed the lid with shaking hands. She put the bottle to her lips as Frances watched her.
“Oh god,” the girl muttered, as her stomach lurched. Pressing the bottle into Frances’s grip, she scurried down the hallway.
“Daisy, we should go!” Frances called after her, but the sound of the bathroom door closing drowned out her words.
Frances moved into the galley kitchen, opening cupboards and drawers, searching for a clue to David’s identity. The man could be a pervert, a pedophile, a human trafficker. And he could return at any moment. Frances wanted them both gone before he did. The kitchen proved to be fully stocked with cooking supplies and utensils, but devoid of any personal effects. Even the fridge was bare but for two bright pink vodka coolers and a few beers. Wedged between the fridge and the microwave, she found a plastic binder full of takeout menus, the apartment’s address written prominently on the front page in blue ink. That was likely where Daisy had found the digits she had texted to Frances.
She moved past the barren living room into the short hallway. Behind the door on her right, Daisy vomited vociferously. Frances hesitated, for a beat, outside the opposite door. Entering David’s bedroom was an invasion of privacy. And, frankly, she was afraid of what she might find in there. Camera equipment? Sex toys? Worse? But she pushed past her fears and opened the door.
The bed was unmade, but otherwise, the room was pristine. Didn’t this David person have any belongings? She opened the closet and found two shirts hanging, an empty duffel bag on the floor. Moving to the dresser, she pulled open the three drawers: a few pairs of socks, underwear, a couple of T-shirts, and a pair of jeans.
Her heart pounding with adrenaline, she moved to the bedside table. In the top drawer, she found a small plastic bag of marijuana, a bottle of Tylenol, a handful of condoms. Oh, Daisy . . . She opened the bottom drawer: empty. But something compelled her to run her hand around the edges of the vacant compartment. Pressed against the back of the drawer, she felt a smooth, rectangular piece of paper. She extracted a photograph. It was Daisy.
Frances peered at the glossy finish, the washed-out color, the curling edges. It was an older photograph, circa the 1990s. But Daisy wouldn’t even have been born. Frances inspected the girl’s image. Her hair was darker, her makeup brighter, her face fuller. And then she realized, it wasn’t Daisy.
It was Kate.
Her friend was younger, probably about twenty. Her hair was dark and feathered, her makeup colorful and heavy-handed, but there was no denying it was Kate Randolph. Why did David have a photograph of Daisy’s mother? What the hell was going on here?
The toilet flushed. Daisy would soon emerge and Frances needed to get her out of here. Something was very wrong with this scenario. She didn’t know what, but her every instinct was screaming that they needed to get out. Shoving the photo into the back pocket of her jeans, she hurried into the hall.
The teen appeared, pale, almost ghostly. “Can you take me home?” she asked.
“Yes. Let’s go.”
daisy
NOW
Daisy sipped the electrolyte drink as Frances chauffeured her back to Clyde Hill. She had swallowed two of the antinausea pills and managed to keep them down. They were starting to kick in now, as they flew down the freeway, and she was feeling notably better. It was fortunate. Her improved constitution made the lecture Frances was giving her more tolerable.
“I don’t know who David is. I don’t know where you met him or what he wants with you. But you can’t see him again.”
“Okay.”
Frances glanced over at her. “I mean it, Daisy. He is not your friend. He’s a man who has an apartment. He must be eighteen at least.”
Try thirty. . . .
“He gave liquor and drugs to a minor. He shouldn’t be spending time alone with a drunk teenage girl.”
“Okay.”
“It’s inappropriate. In fact, it’s illegal.”
He asked me questions about my life. He didn’t even try to kiss me. He put a blanket on me when I fell asleep.
Frances wouldn’t want to hear it. She seemed convinced that David was a creep, a pervert, a pedophile. The girl understood how it could look that way, but she wasn’t afraid of David. Maybe she should have been, maybe she was a silly, naïve fourteen-year-old, but the man made her feel safe. He made her feel protected.
As they exited the freeway, Frances kept talking. “The internet is filled with predators, Daisy. You can’t meet someone online and then agree to meet them in person—especially in private. It’s not safe.”
She could explain that she hadn’t met David online, that he had sat in his big car and watched her in the night, had orchestrated a meeting at the convenience store, had shown up at her school and driven her home. But that would really freak Frances out. Daisy was unaccustomed to this type of concern for her well-being. No one ever worried about her. But Frances seemed almost beside herself with worry. Daisy kind of liked it.
“I won’t see him again,” she mumbled, looking out the passenger window. Frances’s Subaru was climbing the 92nd Avenue hill. They were almost home.
“I know you don’t want your mom to know.”
“Please,” Daisy said, turning to face her driver, “don’t tell her.”
Frances didn’t respond. She drove in silence for a few blocks, then pulled the car over on the shoulder. “I won’t tell your mom,” she said, swiveling to face Daisy. “But you have to promise me that you won’t go back to that apartment. Promise me that you won’t see David again.”
“Okay.”
“Say it, Daisy.”
“I promise.”
Frances accepted her word. Then she drove her home.
* * *
The house was empty. Daisy’s dad was still away, her brother was at school, and her mom must have been running errands. She went directly to the shower and stood, under near scalding water, reflecting on the night’s events. Frances’s concerns were not unwarranted. David was older, he was mysterious, he was probably trouble. But she wasn’t sure she’d be able to keep her promise to stay away from him. Not because she wanted David to be her boyfriend. He was old. Hot but old. But for some reason, she liked being around him. She liked how he bought her favorite drinks (her former favorite drinks), put a blanket on her when she fell asleep, and looked at her like she was a rare butterfly that he was afraid to touch. But a grown man would want more than that—even at fourteen, she knew it. Frances was right. Daisy had to stay away from David.
When her fingers were starting to turn pruney, she turned off the shower and headed to her room. She felt significantly better, but she’d decided to skip school. Again. Since the butt plug incident, she’d taken a sabbatical. Pulling on her sweatpants and her favorite oversize sweater, she made her way downstairs. She had just reached the main floor when she heard a key in the front door. Her mom breezed into the room, carrying two paper sacks full of groceries.
“Why aren’t you at school?”
Not: Where have you been all night? Who were you with? Are you okay?
“I’m not feeling well,” Daisy said, her hoarse voice backing up her story. Her mom carried the bags into the kitchen. Daisy followed her. “Have you heard from Dad?”
>
“His flight lands at four.” Her mom surveyed the living area. “This place is filthy. Go rest in your room so I can clean up before he gets here.”
“Actually, I think I feel better,” Daisy said. “I’ll go to school.”
Kate didn’t respond; she was already attacking the imagined grime in the kitchen with a bleach spray and a stiff-bristled brush. As Daisy moved back to the stairwell, her mom’s voice halted her.
“I almost forgot”—she kept scouring the sink as she spoke—“your dad had a message for you.”
“What?”
“Your aunt Marnie wants to hear from you. He’ll text you her e-mail address.”
“Really?” Daisy was delighted. “That’s great. I’ll e-mail her tonight. I don’t know what to say. . . .”
“I wouldn’t get too excited,” her mom said, scrubbing even more aggressively. “Marnie’s a judgmental cunt.”
frances
NOW
Alone in her house, Frances sat at her kitchen table, staring at the photograph of a young Kate. It was a candid shot. Kate wasn’t looking at the camera, wasn’t smiling, wasn’t posing. She was walking—purposeful strides—wearing a dark blazer and a matching skirt. Had David taken the photo? If not, how did he get it? More important, what was he doing with Kate’s daughter? Frances sipped the strong cup of tea she’d made for herself, and turned the picture over. For the first time, she noticed the hand lettering on the back. A name.
AMBER KUNIK
Frances’s mouth went dry as she stared at the block letters printed in black ink. It was clearly a picture of Kate—younger, with darker hair and heavier makeup, but there was no denying it was her friend. But that name . . . Amber Kunik.Wasn’t she the woman involved in that sensational murder trial years ago? Amber had testified against her boyfriend, placing all the blame on him, but had ended up in jail herself for torturing that young girl. Wait. . . .
Frances grabbed her iPad from where it was resting on the stack of magazines and unopened mail and tapped her password into the device. Opening her browser, she was greeted by a couple of open tabs, recent Google searches:
Artificial colors and ADHD
Which has more calories? Sauvignon Blanc or Pinot Grigio?
With her hands shaking, she typed Amber Kunik into the search bar.
A barrage of images and articles, old and new, filled the page.
KILLER KUNIK GETS SWEET DEAL
KUNIK TESTIMONY PUTS NELSON AWAY FOR LIFE
CONVICTED KILLER KUNIK IS A SOCCER MOM IN MONTANA
A soccer mom? In Montana? Amber Kunik had her own Wikipedia page. Frances clicked, a vein in her temple throbbing as she read. The biography detailed the woman’s upbringing, her crime, her trial, prison stay, and subsequent release. Amber Kunik was a cold-blooded killer. A monster. She had made a plea deal and served only six years for killing a teenage girl. But videotaped evidence had revealed her to be an active, enthusiastic participant in the girl’s torture. Amber had, effectively, gotten away with murder.
Kate couldn’t be Amber Kunik. Kate was warm and kind and good. She was a wife, a mom, and a devoted friend. The best friend Frances had ever had. Maybe she had an evil twin? But this was not a soap opera. This was Frances’s life.
She sifted through the internet images of Amber, a pretty young woman with dark hair, fluffy bangs (stylish in 1997), a genuine smile. There she was laughing with a handsome, dark-haired man, beaming on Christmas morning, then glaring at the camera as she walked toward the courthouse. Frances peered at the face. It was Kate Randolph; there was no denying it. Despite the dark hair, the big bangs, the purple eyeliner . . . there could be no doubt.
Kate was not Kate. Kate was Amber Kunik—a murderer.
Frances felt dizzy and sick. She reached for her tea, but her hand would not close on the handle, didn’t have the strength to grip the mug. The iPad fell from her grasp, hitting the table, sloshing tea onto the wood. Frances watched the liquid meander across the surface, heading toward the stack of magazines and school forms to her left. She should grab a cloth and wipe it up, but she couldn’t move. She was paralyzed by shock, horror, and confusion.
Because it was not Kate who had the dark past, the shameful secrets, the horrific memories that gnawed at her conscience. That was Frances.
Frances was the killer.
frances
THEN
Frances Downie was an average teenager in every sense of the word. She was pretty but not beautiful; well liked but not popular; bright but not gifted. She was the middle of Joyce and Bob Downie’s three girls. Mary Anne, older than Frances by four years, was the athlete. Tall, strong, and competitive, the eldest sister had won a volleyball scholarship to Rice University. Younger sister Tricia, just eighteen months Frances’s junior, was the smart one and the pretty one. School, popularity, beauty—all seemed so effortless for Tricia. With these admirable attributes assigned, Frances was left to be the good one: dutiful, compliant, cooperative. Frances did most of the housework and cooked dinner regularly. Her family appreciated it, even if they forgot to explicitly show their gratitude. The Downie parents loved all their girls, but Mary Anne was her dad’s favorite, and Tricia was her mother’s. Frances couldn’t even blame them.
Their home, in a middle-class suburb of Spokane, Washington, was a modest three-bedroom bungalow. Frances and Tricia shared a room until Mary Anne left for college, when Tricia moved across the hall into the vacated space. When Mary Anne came home for the summer, Tricia moved back in with Frances. Frances would grumble about her privacy, but she was comforted by her sister’s presence. She slept better when she could hear the girl’s soft breathing across the room. Bob Downie worked for the city, in the permits department. Joyce was a dental hygienist. The Downies had enough, but no extra. Their marriage was companionable, but not overtly affectionate. Frances’s entire teenage existence would have been typical, middling, run-of-the-mill . . . had she not walked into the girls’ bathroom during third period that day in eleventh grade.
She was in Mrs. Chamberlain’s English class when she felt a dampness in her underpants. Her stupid period had arrived early. The elderly teacher was strict about not excusing kids in the middle of class, but when a sixteen-year-old girl grabbed her purse and asked to go to the restroom, the woman knew enough not to refuse. Frances walked through the empty halls, her shoes squeaking on the waxed linoleum. When she reached the swinging door of the main bathroom, she pushed her way inside.
There were six toilet stalls, a bank of sinks, and a wall of mirrors. Perched on the pink Formica counter was April Sutcliffe. The girl was Frances’s age, but more mature, more edgy, more rebellious. Teachers branded her trouble. Her peers labeled her badass. She wore thick foundation and black eyeliner, skintight jeans and low-cut shirts. She was tough and cool and she didn’t give a shit. With her was her blond doppelgänger, Rhonda Mullins. Rhonda was holding a plastic bag. April had a can of spray paint.
“Shit,” April said, hiding the aerosol can behind her back. When she recognized Frances, she relaxed. “Oh. Hey.”
Rhonda said, “We thought you were Chapman.”
The principal, Mrs. Chapman, had been known to pop into the girls’ bathroom to look for skippers, smokers, drinkers. And, likely, whatever it was April and Rhonda were doing.
“What are you guys doing?” Frances asked.
“Huffing,” April said, casually. Rhonda held out the plastic bag, and April sprayed the paint—an iridescent gold—into it. The blonde bent her head to the opening of the bag and inhaled deeply. She closed her eyes and her whole body relaxed, became buoyant and rubbery.
“Cool,” Frances said, like she was familiar with the process, like maybe she’d even done it herself, which, of course, she hadn’t. She made her way into a stall.
As she sat on the toilet, affixing her maxi pad, she could hear April taking her turn. The tough girl inhaled deeply, then let out an almost sexual moan. Frances emerged to find the two of them leaning against
the countertop, smiling beatifically.
She was washing her hands when April said, “Want to try?”
At sixteen, Frances had attended a handful of parties where alcohol and marijuana were abundant. Her strategy was to hold a room-temperature beer, pressing it to her lips infrequently, then tipping it into a plant or down a sink when an opportune moment arose. When offered weed, she had a mild case of asthma as an excuse. Of course, she would politely refuse April’s offer.
“As if,” Rhonda snorted, her glassy eyes falling on Frances.
Something, some tiny kernel of teenage rebellion, flared inside of Frances. She hadn’t even known she harbored such seditiousness, but there it was. It occurred to her then that she could redefine herself. She wasn’t smart, pretty, or skilled at sports. But she didn’t have to be the good sister, the compliant, dutiful, doting sister. She could be the bad one.
“Sure,” Frances said, with a casual shrug. The shock on Rhonda’s face was satisfying.
April smiled. “Right on.” She held the can at the ready as Rhonda passed the plastic bag, now colored gold on the inside, to Frances. She held it open and let April fill it with paint. Putting her face to the mouth, Frances inhaled the fumes, then held her breath like she’d seen Rhonda do.
Stars flashed behind Frances’s closed eyelids, and for a moment, she was afraid she might collapse. Then she opened her eyes and exhaled, a flood of euphoria coursing through her.
“Fuck . . . ,” she murmured, and April and Rhonda shared a smile, like they were proud of her. Suddenly, Frances was not average, bland, dull. She was strong and confident, pretty and popular, wild and free. It was Frances, not Mary Anne or Tricia, who was the most loved Downie girl. Of course she was. She was spectacular. The high lasted roughly fifteen minutes.
She didn’t go back to class—Mrs. Chamberlain would assume cramps, or some embarrassing menstrual mess. Frances followed April and Rhonda to the mall, where they ate fries, looked at shoes, and huffed two more times—once in the bathroom, and once in the loading bay behind a department store. When Frances went home, around four-thirty, she couldn’t wait to tell her younger sister about her adventure.
Her Pretty Face Page 13