Her Pretty Face

by Robyn Harding

  Tricia, despite her looks, brains, and popularity, was sweet and grounded. She was two grades behind Frances, but still, the sisters were best friends. Tricia was the only one who looked up to Frances, who made her feel cool, and smart, and savvy. Today’s escapades, with April and Rhonda, would solidify the younger girl’s admiration.

  “It makes you feel amazing,” Frances explained. “Like you’re the most perfect person in the world.”

  Even though Tricia already was the most perfect person in the world (at least in Frances’s world), she was enthralled. “It sounds fantastic.”

  “It was.”

  “I can’t believe you tried it! You’re so brave!”

  Frances smiled and shrugged, basking in the compliment.

  “You don’t even drink,” Tricia said. “You don’t even smoke pot.”

  “This is different. It only gets you high for a few minutes, so you can’t really get into trouble. Like, we could do it right now, before Mom and Dad get home, and they’d never know.”

  Frances saw the apprehension on her sister’s pretty face. Tricia was a good girl, too, but she already had so many other attributes that Frances had tried to claim the label for herself. Corrupting her sweet, innocent sibling suddenly felt like a personal challenge. “There’s spray paint in the basement workshop,” Frances said, a dark glimmer in her eye. “Mom won’t be home for over an hour.”

  “I don’t know. . . .”

  “It’s fun. You’ll love it.”

  “I have a lot of homework.” Tricia’s cheeks were pink. “Are you sure it won’t mess me up?”

  “You’ll feel totally normal in, like, fifteen minutes. Trust me.”

  The younger girl did. Frances was her big sister, after all. The siblings scurried to the kitchen to grab a plastic bag and then rumbled down the stairs.

  Their dad’s “workshop” was just a storage room for the remnants of household repair jobs. Boxes of nails, screws, tubes of caulking, tubs of spackle, and a few tools lined the wooden shelves. The girls found a can of silver metallic spray paint left over from a school project Tricia had done in sixth grade.

  “I made that satellite model for the science fair,” Tricia said, sounding nostalgic for elementary school. Frances realized that was only three years ago. Tricia was in ninth grade, fourteen years old. Normally, she seemed older than her years, more mature and composed. But right now, she seemed young, nervous, and intimidated. Her sister’s insecurity made Frances feel older, worldly, wise.

  The girls sat on a scrap of carpet covering the concrete floor. There wasn’t a lot of paint left, so Frances mimed a demonstration. “You just breathe in like this,” she said, holding the bag to her mouth. “Hold it in as long as you can, and then breathe out.” She felt like an expert: knowledgeable, experienced, blasé. . . . It was a new feeling for her and she relished it.

  “Okay,” Tricia said. “I’m ready.”

  Frances shook the can, the glass pea rattling against the metal of the container. Tricia held open the bag and Frances precisely sprayed, filling the bag with silver. Her younger sister obediently held it to her face and inhaled.

  She watched Tricia breathing in the poison, her eyes closed, her face blank, waiting for the chemicals to hit. Then the girl exhaled, her body slackening, face paling. Her sister’s eyes opened, but they were blind, unseeing. A small, hesitant smile curved her lips as the feeling hit her.

  Upstairs, the front door opened.

  “Shit,” Frances muttered.

  “Girls?” It was their dad, home early from work. Why? Bob Downie was old-school. He’d go nuts if he caught them. There would be slaps and yelling and swearing. The sisters would be grounded for months, the entire summer probably: no TV, no friends, no swimming pool. . . . That was if he caught them.

  “Oh my god!” Tricia whispered, and the panic in her eyes was real and visceral.

  It’s okay, Frances wanted to say. Dad won’t know. I’ll cover for you. But her sister was already running for the door. Where was she going? What was her plan? But Frances would never find out, because Tricia collapsed.

  A fatal ventricular rhythm disturbance. That was what killed her sister. Frances wouldn’t hear the term “sudden sniffing death syndrome” until years later, when enough kids had dropped dead from huffing for it to garner media attention. Inhalants are cardiac depressants, she learned. When that combined with the adrenaline surge Tricia experienced when she heard their dad come home, her heart was thrown into dysrhythmia. And then it stopped.

  Frances admitted it all. She had introduced the fatal act to her younger sibling, had provided detailed instructions on how to inhale the toxic chemicals that stopped Tricia’s heart. She was not criminally responsible: the police deemed the death an “accidental overdose.” But Tricia would never have tried huffing if Frances hadn’t cajoled her into it, hadn’t assured her that it was fun and safe and basically harmless. Frances, alone, shouldered the blame. But she never told anyone how she’d felt as she took her sister through the deadly motions: cool, older, superior. It made her hate herself even more.

  After Tricia died, Mary Anne stopped coming home for the summers. And then she stopped coming home for midterm breaks and Christmas. She said she was working, training, spending time with friends, but the Downie home had become a dark and dismal place, like grief had sucked all the light from the house. Bob and Joyce kept working, kept breathing, kept living, but their sadness and resentment permeated the air, the furniture, their rapidly aging bodies. They functioned for their remaining dependent daughter, Frances—already their least favorite, now the one who had destroyed their family, destroyed their lives.

  Frances endured high school as a pariah, a monster, a murderer. She applied for college, more as an escape than a quest for further education. When she packed up for her move to Bellingham to attend Whatcom Community College, there were no tears. At least her parents had enough guile to hide their overt relief. Her dad helped her carry an overstuffed suitcase to her secondhand Honda hatchback.

  “We still love you, Frances,” he said, without emotion. Frances nodded, the lump in her throat blocking a response. As she drove away, she let the tears come: tears of loss, grief, and relief.

  Her parents could pretend they had forgiven her, but they hadn’t. How could they, when Frances could never forgive herself?

  daisy

  NOW

  By the time Daisy got to school, it was lunchtime. This was unfortunate, since the hour between noon and one was the worst time for a social leper. She’d spent weeks drifting through the front foyer and the hallways, cliques subtly retracting like sea anemones, their tentacles closing against a predator. Liam’s declaration of her virtue may have softened their disgust, but Daisy knew not to get her hopes up. She wasn’t interested in reclaiming her former popularity; she just wanted kids to stop planting sex toys in her locker.

  Today, she was going to brave the cafeteria. She hadn’t eaten since yesterday, and she was weak and light-headed. Now that her stomach had settled, she realized she was famished. Usually, she avoided the packed room with its plethora of odors (grease, fruit peelings, BO), and subsisted on vending machine food. But her hangover required more solid sustenance: a sandwich or even a burger. As she stumbled into the bustling commissary, she tried to lose herself in the mental fog that still clung to her. If she focused hard enough, perhaps she could dissolve into thoughts of David, into the composition of her e-mail to her aunt Marnie.

  With a foil-wrapped cheeseburger (emanating a disturbingly armpit-like scent) and a Coke on her tray, she scanned the room for an unobtrusive corner to park in.

  “Daisy!” She turned toward the female voice and saw Tori Marra waving her over. Really? Daisy resisted the urge to look behind her to see if the popular girl was gesturing to someone else. Tori waved again and there was no mistaking her intention. Mustering all her confidence, Daisy walked toward the pretty blonde who had recently taken such delight in her humiliation.

&n
bsp; “Hey,” Tori said, biting into an apple. She was surrounded by a posse of popular girls who had middling grades but excelled at social politics. “Want to sit with us?”

  It could be a trap, a setup. Tori, or one of her minions, might stuff a dildo or edible panties into Daisy’s backpack. But she was so hungry. “Sure.”

  Tori nudged Maggie Waters, the cute but vapid girl seated next to her, to slide over, making a space for Daisy. Obediently, Daisy climbed into the vacated spot.

  “Dylan Larabee’s having a party on Saturday,” Tori said. “You have to come.”

  The host, Liam’s sidekick, had branded her a nympho, a slut, who knew what else. . . . “I might have plans Saturday,” she said, her mind flitting to David.

  “Blow them off!” Tori said. “Dylan really wants you there.” She leaned in, lowered her voice. “I think he’s into you.”

  While Dylan Larabee’s interest did not excite her, Daisy had to marvel at the magic of Liam Kenneway’s endorsement. The quarterback had scolded the other kids, assured them that Daisy liked normal sex, not weird butt-play. With a few little words, he had thrown her a lifeline. If she wanted to, she could grab it and drag herself back from high school exile. Did she care enough to reach for it? She had to . . . because Frances Metcalfe was right. She couldn’t spend her time in a furnished apartment, drinking vodka coolers with a strange man twice her age, no matter how good he made her feel.

  “Okay,” she said, biting into her cheeseburger.

  Just like that, Daisy was back in.

  dj

  THEN

  After his mother left, DJ returned to the trial with his father. Not because his dad needed moral support, but because the boy preferred sitting in court to sitting in school. The process could be slow and laborious, but it was still more interesting than learning fractions or analyzing short stories. And without his mom around, no one cared if DJ passed or failed. He didn’t want to repeat seventh grade, but he was sure his teacher would take pity on him. What could they expect, after all he’d been through? First his sister and now his mother . . .

  DJ was thrilled when the defense called Amber Kunik to the stand for cross-examination. His fascination with her was undiminished by distance and time, untouched by the things he had learned about her, the acts of which she was accused. He despised her, as was appropriate, but he was drawn to her at the same time. Not in a sexual way. He was simply in awe of her composure, her placid demeanor, her incredible knack for self-preservation. Watching her charm and manipulate the men and women in the courtroom was mesmerizing. And contemplating the evil that lurked inside such a pretty package was even more so.

  Shane Nelson’s bulldog of a lawyer was well equipped to take on the attractive witness. Martin Bannerman had the air of a warrior or a gladiator. He looked capable of decimating a biker gang, an army even. He would not coax and cajole, would not treat Amber with kid gloves. That day, he handed the witness, demure in her skirt and cardigan, hair pulled neatly back, a mauve envelope.

  “Can you tell the court what that is, Ms. Kunik?” His voice, like his physicality, was distinctly masculine.

  Amber kept her eyes on the pale purple rectangle in her grasp. “It’s a letter I wrote to Shane. When we were together.”

  “Would you please read it aloud?”

  Something flashed in her eyes—anger? irritation?—but then it was gone. Obediently, she opened the envelope and withdrew the missive. She began to read, her voice sweet and high.

  “Dear Shane . . . I’m at work right now, but I can’t concentrate. All I can think about is you and how happy you’ve made me. Every time I think about you, I feel like my heart will explode, and”—she paused, blushing prettily before she continued—“I get so wet.”

  A murmur rippled through the spectators thrilled by the salacious content. Amber continued.

  “You’ve made me the happiest girl in the world. The day we met is the best day of my life and the only day that will compare is the day we get married. You are so sexy and smart and wonderful in every way. I’m the luckiest girl alive. I will love you always and forever. . . . Amber.”

  She set the letter in her lap and looked the attorney in the eye. Not once did she glance at the object of her devotion, sitting rigid in his navy suit before her.

  “You sound like you were very much in love,” Martin Bannerman said.

  “I was.”

  “Those don’t sound like the words of a woman who was abused, who was mentally and physically tortured.”

  DJ leaned forward, eager to watch the witness’s unraveling.

  “I don’t think it’s uncommon for victims of abuse to be in love with their abusers,” Amber stated, a hard glint in her eye. “Abusive men can be very manipulative . . . very charming.”

  She sounded educated, authoritative on the subject. She had done her research.

  The lawyer now had the envelope in his big hand, and he waved it before the spectators. “How often did you write love letters to Mr. Nelson?”

  “Every day.”

  “Wow . . . You were so in love that you wrote Mr. Nelson a love letter every single day?”

  “Shane made me do it. If I didn’t give him a letter every day, he’d hit me.”

  The lawyer didn’t respond, didn’t react, but a vein in his neck bulged ominously. Martin Bannerman strode across the room to retrieve another envelope, a white one this time. He returned to the witness.

  “Do you recognize this missive, Ms. Kunik?”

  Amber examined it for a moment. “It’s a letter I wrote to my friend Beth. She moved to Tucson after high school.”

  “Would you read it for the court please.”

  She complied, repressing her earlier spark of indignation. The letter began with polite inquiries about Beth’s new life in the nearby city, but soon segued into Amber and Shane’s romantic relationship.

  “. . . I can’t wait until Shane and I get married. My whole life has been leading to this moment. I never liked kids, but I want to have his babies (four at least). I will even try to love his other son. . . .” She trailed off here, her eyes darting to the jury, to the lawyer, to Shane.

  The judge stepped in. “Finish reading the letter, Ms. Kunik.”

  She cleared her throat. “I will even try to love his other son, even though his mom is a drunken whore and he’s probably brain damaged or something.”

  The courtroom erupted in gasps and muttered outrage. Shane Nelson shook his head, disgusted. His lawyer barely suppressed a triumphant smile. DJ knew that people sometimes said harsh, ugly things. Since taking up his steady diet of whiskey, his father said them daily. But in the context of the horrendous crimes she was accused of, Amber’s words, directed at an innocent little boy, seemed exceedingly cruel. Finally, the court would see how evil Amber was.

  When the judge had restored order, Bannerman said, “Please continue, Ms. Kunik.”

  The witness resumed reading her letter to Beth. “I am writing to ask you to be my maid of honor. You’re my best friend and Shane likes you. I want you to stand beside me when I become his wife. We can pick out our dresses together. My dad will pay for everything. It’s the least the pervert could do. . . . Love you lots and lots, Amber.”

  She looked up, met the lawyer’s gaze. She was ready for him.

  “Had my client, Mr. Nelson, actually proposed to you?”

  “Not officially. But he told me we’d get married. We talked about it all the time.”

  “Really?” the lawyer asked, strolling around the room, hands clasped behind his back. “Did you talk about it while he was beating you?”

  There was that flash of annoyance again. “No. Of course not.”

  “You said the abuse was frequent, practically constant. And yet, you still found time to talk about a wedding, and children. . . .”

  “We talked about it after he beat me.” Her eyes pooled with tears, and her voice became small and broken, a victim’s. “It was Shane’s way of saying sorry, of getting
me to forgive him. I thought that once we were actually married, the abuse would stop.” She looked directly at the jury then. “I know I was stupid to think that.”

  The vein in the lawyer’s neck bulged. Amber was winning. Bannerman knew it; everyone knew it. And DJ could see through the girl’s tears. Amber was enjoying herself. She relished facing off against this powerful attorney. She reveled in the jury’s sympathy. The girl had made her deal; she was safe.

  Shane Nelson’s trial for the murder of Courtney Carey was just a game to her.

  frances

  NOW

  Frances drove to Forrester Academy on autopilot, in a literal state of shock. What she had discovered about her friend made her sick to her stomach. An innocent but troubled young girl had been abducted, abused, tortured, and eventually (not soon enough) murdered. The account had jogged Frances’s memory. While no cameras had been allowed in the courtroom, there had been significant media coverage of the case. The country had been transfixed, fascinated by the good-looking young couple capable of such evil. Tabloid news shows like Hard Copy and A Current Affair featured stills of the comely pair at barbecues and birthday parties, on a motorcycle road trip, posed in front of the Grand Canyon. Frances remembered seeing footage of Shane Nelson, disturbingly attractive even in his prison jumpsuit: tall, rangy, intense. And, despite the horror playing out in her own life at that time, she remembered Amber Kunik.

  The image was trapped in the recesses of her brain. Amber, demure in her conservative coat, being led through a phalanx of media to a waiting car. Flashbulbs had popped, reporters had called her name, like the girl was some sort of pop star or movie starlet. Frances recalled the way the burly police officer, or maybe he was a bailiff, had protected Amber’s pretty dark head as he helped her into the backseat. And Frances remembered the look. When the car door closed, Amber had peered through the window, chin slightly lowered, eyes penetrating the camera lens. The press had had a field day with that moment, playing and replaying it, over the course of the trial. It was that same, slightly flirtatious look Kate had given Frances at the seaside restaurant. Jesus Christ.