Her Pretty Face

by Robyn Harding

  But that was twenty years ago, and she wasn’t sure her memory could be trusted. And could the media? The press could be biased, sensationalistic, salacious. She knew, firsthand, how tragedies could be twisted and spun for entertainment value. Amber Kunik had accepted a plea deal, and maintained that Nelson had abused and controlled her. But many had doubts, and the media had pounced on that angle.

  Pulling into the parking lot, Frances squeezed her car into a vacant spot in the back row, farthest from the school. Kate always parked in the front row. Frances couldn’t risk running into her friend right now. The thought made her heart beat erratically and her stomach twist into knots. She’d left her iPad, mid-research, to come pick up her son. Now, as she sat in the school parking lot, she wondered if her brain was playing tricks on her.

  Frances knew the toll of living with a terrible secret: the guilt, the self-loathing, the constant, nagging fear of being found out. . . . She knew how it manifested in her marriage, her relationships, and her parenting. Kate couldn’t be hiding a murderous past. Unlike Frances, Kate didn’t eat compulsively, didn’t question why her husband loved her, didn’t over-parent her children because she lived in unrelenting terror of them being taken from her. Kate was confident, well adjusted, normal. Unless she was a psychopath?

  Marcus was crossing the playground now, his eyes searching for the familiar car. Normally, she would have gotten out and waved to him, but today, she stayed inside, inconspicuous. She couldn’t draw attention to herself. If Kate was in the vicinity, she would come over and say hi, she always did. Frances had loved that. It had made her feel special . . . but not anymore.

  As her son moved closer, she noticed his small companion walking alongside him: Charles Randolph. Right . . . Frances had agreed to collect the boy because Kate was going to pick Robert up at the airport. (The women had filled out the requisite school forms allowing each access to the other’s son.) The distinguished attorney was returning from his father’s memorial service. Kate had not been welcome. Did Robert’s family know the truth about his wife? Were they horrified? Disgusted? Afraid?

  “Hi, Mom.” Marcus crawled into the backseat.

  “Hi, sweetheart.”

  Charles climbed in beside him. “Hi, Frances.”

  She answered through the lump in her throat. “Hi, honey.”

  The boys chatted amiably about a lunchtime game of manhunt as she drove them home. They sounded so cheerful, so innocent. Frances’s heart ached for Charles. For Daisy, too. They couldn’t know their mother’s history. They were too young to comprehend her dark, cruel, ugly past. But it was only a matter of time before the truth came out, somehow. This David character knew Kate’s identity. Was he going to tell Daisy? Seek some sort of retribution?

  If Kate Randolph really was Amber Kunik, if she really had gotten away with murder, why the hell had she had children?

  When they arrived home, Frances prepared the boys a tray of nachos (Marcus’s mild lactose intolerance suddenly seemed insignificant) and let them occupy themselves. They’d end up on a screen in short order, but, that, too, seemed of less concern. She wanted the boys to enjoy their time together, blissful in their ignorance. Once all this came out, their friendship would be shattered.

  Frances retrieved her iPad and resumed her research at the kitchen table. She clicked through the most recent articles:

  KILLER KUNIK MARRIED TO HER LAWYER AND LIVING IN THE FLORIDA KEYS

  Robert had been a lawyer. Amber’s lawyer.

  THE SINS OF THE MOTHER: WHY AMBER KUNIK’S CHILDREN WILL PAY FOR HER CRIMES

  Oh god, those poor kids.

  Frances sifted through the photos of Kate’s past iteration—the shiny dark hair, the youthful face, the same gray eyes. One of the photos didn’t fit the melange. A girl with brown hair, the same big bangs, but a rounder face, softer features. Her makeup was too dark, too heavy, an attempt to look older, harder. Frances knew who she was, who she had to be, but she clicked the link anyway.

  Courtney Carey. The victim.

  The girl was fifteen years old when she was killed. How old was Daisy? Fourteen or fifteen. How could Kate look at her daughter and not see this murdered girl? Not think about what had been done to her? Perhaps that explained Kate’s seeming indifference toward her female child. She had emotionally detached herself from Daisy to block her memories of Courtney Carey.

  Returning to the search page, Frances sifted through the more recent “sightings” of Amber Kunik. Her hair was now that expensive mix of caramel and honey, her face slimmer, her makeup muted and tasteful. Photographers had caught her hurrying to her car, buying groceries, peeking out from behind a curtained window. Amber had been a predator; now Kate was the prey.

  “Excuse me, Frances.”

  Her head snapped up. It was Charles, Kate’s angelic son, standing at the end of the table. Instinctively, Frances pressed the iPad to her chest, shielding the boy from the words and images that would destroy him.

  “Yes, Charles?”

  “When will my mom and dad be here?”

  “Around five-thirty,” Frances said, forcing a normal tone. “Are you okay? Do you need anything? Another snack?”

  “No, thanks. I need to save room for dinner. It’s spaghetti night.” The boy smiled. “My mom makes the best spaghetti.” He wandered toward the living room, where Marcus, red-faced and sweaty from overstimulation, was playing a video game.

  With the iPad clutched to her chest, Frances hurried upstairs to the master bathroom. She deposited the device in the linen cupboard, turned on the shower, and wept. Hot tears poured from her eyes and sobs shuddered through her chest, their sound masked by the pounding water droplets behind her. She was crying for Charles, for Daisy, and, though she was loath to admit it, for herself. Her self-pity was indulgent. The Randolph children, Courtney Carey and her family—they were the real victims. Still, Frances couldn’t deny the visceral sense of loss.

  The doorbell rang. Shit. How long had she been locked away, weeping? She reached into the shower and turned off the water. Leaning over the sink, she splashed cold water on her face and hurriedly dried it on a towel. She rumbled down the stairs to find Charles opening the door. Kate, looking stylish, pretty, virtuous, stood in the entryway.

  “Hey, buddy.” Kate bent down and hugged her son. As Frances approached, the tall woman righted herself and smiled. “Thanks for picking him up.”

  “No problem.”

  “Go get your school bag, Charles.” The boy obediently scurried away.

  Frances peered past Kate to the SUV parked in the drive. Robert was behind the wheel, his eyes on his phone. Frances should ask how Robert was holding up, should ask how the funeral went. She should call Marcus to come say goodbye to his friend at the door. It was rude to stay glued to his game while a guest was leaving. But she couldn’t feign concern, couldn’t make idle chitchat, couldn’t worry about her son’s manners, or lack thereof. She was barely holding herself together.

  “Are you okay?” Kate reached out and placed a hand on Frances’s cheek. Frances forced herself not to flinch. “You look pale.”

  “I went to the gym,” Frances lied. “I think I overdid it. I’m a little light-headed.”

  “You might have low blood sugar. Do you want me to make you something to eat?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Robert can take Marcus home and I can walk home after. I don’t want to leave you alone if you’re not feeling well.”

  Kate’s concern would have been touching, if only Frances could believe it.

  “I’ll eat something. It’s okay.”

  Charles returned then, his backpack slung over his arm. As he stepped into his shoes, Kate spoke to Frances. “Thanks again. I’ll pick up Marcus next week and he can come over for a playdate.”

  “Yes!” Charles exclaimed.

  No, Frances thought. But she held her tongue and forced an acquiescent smile.

  As she watched Kate escort her son to the waiting vehicle, her heart
clenched with emotion. The thought of losing the Randolphs’ friendship was almost too much to bear. And maybe she didn’t have to? Recidivism rates were much lower for women who committed crimes than for men—she’d gleaned that factoid from TV courtroom dramas. If she could forget what Kate had done in the past, they could still be friends.

  But could Frances forget about Courtney Carey, the fifteen-year-old who had been raped and tortured and degraded? Who had suffered such indignities before she was murdered, her body dumped in the mountains like a bag of garbage? What did it say about Frances if she was able to continue this friendship, knowing what she knew?

  But if she couldn’t, Frances was a hypocrite. Her own sister was dead because of her.

  She closed the door and went back to the kitchen.

  daisy

  NOW

  Dylan’s party was in full swing when Daisy arrived, flanked by Mia Wilson and Emma Menendez. It had been easy to fall back into the comfortable fold of their friendship, like slipping into a tepid bath she’d left sitting for a few hours. Being a pariah had been tolerable but hardly enjoyable, so Daisy vowed to appreciate the girls’ companionship. And she sincerely appreciated the beer that Emma’s older brother had bought for them. Daisy had liberated a cannabis cookie from her parents’ stash, and the girls had shared it on the way over. Wandering through Dylan’s stunning, modern, lakeside home, they were all pleasantly buzzed.

  She felt oddly comfortable surrounded by her peers. These kids would turn on her in an instant, she knew that firsthand, but for now, she felt a sense of belonging. Of course, it might be the weed and the beer allowing her to drop her guard, but Daisy knew she was where she should be. She had not heard from David since the disastrous sleepover. She had, however, heard from Frances Metcalfe. The woman’s concern, while initially appreciated, was now crossing the line into nagging. The texts were frequent:

  Have you heard from David?

  No

  Promise me you won’t see him again.

  I won’t.

  You won’t promise or you won’t see him again?

  I won’t see him again

  God . . . poor Marcus. When he was a teen, his mother would have him on a very short leash. But then again, Marcus Metcalfe would probably grow up to be one of those nerdy kids who spent weekends locked in their rooms playing RPG games and chugging energy drinks. Frances’s attentions almost made Daisy appreciate her parents’ indifference.

  As always, the epicenter of the festivities was the kitchen. Dylan, Liam, and a gaggle of athletic boys occupied the modern, open-plan room, interspersed with Tori and her popular crew. Every kid had a drink: a bottle of beer, a vodka cooler, or a red plastic cup full of smuggled liquor. Daisy sipped the bitter beer Emma’s brother had provided, enjoying its numbing effect as they sidled into the jammed space.

  Tori noticed her first. “Daisy! You came!” She seemed disproportionately happy to see her. Or maybe she was just drunk. Liam’s eyes found Daisy then. Maggie Waters was attached to his side, suckered onto him like a pretty, teenage leech, but he offered Daisy a smile, a slight toast with his red cup. Daisy smiled back and held up her beer. It was appropriate that they acknowledge each other. They had had sex, after all: normal, but significant, full-on intercourse. The popular kids had gone from outraged to impressed. Suddenly, their host was beside her.

  “I’m glad you came,” Dylan said, smiling down at her. He was attractive—blond and square-jawed, with broad shoulders and dark eyelashes. He played football, too. Or maybe he played baseball. Daisy had never gone in for that all-American type, but she could feel the covetous eyes of Tori and her crew on their interaction. She should be flattered by this handsome boy’s attentions.

  “Great house,” she said.

  “Yeah. It’s a good party pad.”

  “Where are your parents?”

  “Hong Kong.” He tapped her beer with his red cup. “Can I get you something stronger? Vodka? Tequila?”

  “Why not?” She may as well try to enjoy herself. Just because she felt more mature than these drunk, silly kids didn’t preclude her having a little fun.

  Dylan hustled toward the makeshift bar set up near the sink and returned with a red cup half-full of alcohol. Daisy took it and drank it down, her throat burning, her body shivering with revulsion. It tasted gross, but it was better than a pink vodka cooler. When she finished, she wiped her hand across her lips and looked up at Dylan. He grinned. “I like a girl who knows how to party.”

  “That’s me.”

  He took her cup again and refilled it (tequila or vodka? she had no idea, but it was disgusting), and led her to the living room. It was dark. Kids were dancing to some EDM she didn’t recognize. The air was humid and close, heavy with the scent of sweat and pot and hair product. Dylan’s hands on her hips guided her into the thick of the gyrating teens. Daisy swayed a little, sipping her drink. It was crowded; she was stoned, and drunk, and overheated. Dylan was so close to her, his solid, warm body pressing against hers. His breath smelled like the booze she was drinking. Dylan’s hands moved to her waist, pulling her toward him. She closed her eyes and went with it.

  His lips were soft but insistent, the patchy stubble on his chin rougher than Liam’s, more masculine, almost manly, but not quite. Her fingers drifted along his biceps, his muscular chest. He was big and strong; he could take care of her. . . . When he grabbed her hand and practically dragged her toward the stairs, his forcefulness was sexy.

  He took her to a bedroom—tidy and spacious, with a king-size bed and a cozy seating area: his parents’ room, obviously. They stumbled inside and resumed their kissing. Dylan didn’t push her toward the made bed (apparently, he had some respect for his mother and father’s furnishings), but navigated her toward the cream-colored love seat. They didn’t sit, but leaned against it, hands and mouths exploring each other.

  She heard a zip and then Dylan’s hands moved to her shoulders. He stopped kissing her and smiled a drunken, lascivious smile as he pressed her down. Daisy held her ground. She tried to squirm from his grip, to kiss him again, to distract from his intention, but the pressure on her shoulders increased. An intense wave of anger and revulsion swept over her. She didn’t want this, not with him. She pulled away.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t want to do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “I just don’t, okay?” Her stomach churned, disgust and inebriation threatening to manifest in vomit. She had to leave. She stumbled toward the door.

  “Seriously?” He scoffed in her wake. “You’ll have dirty, crazy sex with Liam but you won’t even give me a BJ?”

  She turned back to look at him: handsome, popular, arrogant. Daisy could respond, could stand up for herself, but why? This boy’s opinion of her was irrelevant. And she was too drunk to mount a proper defense.

  “Sorry.”

  She yanked open the door and scurried down the stairs.

  * * *

  Outside, it was cold and dark and raining, but it was still a relief from the clammy, sweaty, hormone-filled interior. She huddled into her coat as she trudged up Dylan’s winding driveway toward the main road. She wasn’t exactly sure where she was, but when she emerged from the forested enclave that concealed the opulent home, she would get her bearings. She fingered the reassuring outline of her phone in her back pocket.

  She already knew what she was going to do. In fact, she may have known the moment Dylan unzipped his fly. She had been stupid to entertain the boy’s attentions, stupid to have danced with him, kissed him, let him lead her upstairs. . . . There would be social repercussions; a return to teen exile was likely. But Dylan wasn’t her biggest mistake. Her biggest mistake was pretending she belonged here, with these children. She didn’t. She was done playing their game.

  At the road was a mailbox, an ornate brick structure with the address posted prominently above the letter slot. Pulling out her phone, Daisy took a fortifying breath. She typed:

  Can y
ou come get me?

  The response was almost instant.

  Send address

  Daisy was a liar. She had made a promise to Frances Metcalfe that she had never intended to keep. If the woman found out, she would be upset, angry, even afraid for Daisy’s safety. But Frances would never know. And in that moment, Daisy felt only relief and anticipation.

  David was coming for her.

  frances

  NOW

  All weekend, Frances avoided Kate, citing a “bug.” She turned off her phone to dodge her pal’s concerned texts, her offers of soup or to take Marcus for the day. How could Kate be so caring to a friend with a virus, and so heartless and cruel to Courtney Carey? Frances told the same fib to her husband. Marcus had a soccer game on Sunday. Under normal circumstances, both his parents would have attended. But these were not normal circumstances. Frances had to feign illness to return to her research.

  Opinion on the World Wide Web was that Amber Kunik had gotten off easy. Yes, she had been physically, mentally, and emotionally abused by Shane Nelson; there was ample evidence of that. She’d been lured into the relationship at the highly impressionable age of eighteen. Nelson was older, charismatic, already exhibiting signs of sadism and sexual deviancy. Amber would have been considered a victim . . . if not for those tapes.

  Consensus by anyone who saw them (or read the transcripts) was that Amber Kunik had been a willing and enthusiastic participant in the atrocities committed against Courtney Carey. Amber’s were not the actions of a battered woman, playing along out of fear and self-preservation. She had relished the vile acts, instigated torture, suggested abuse. No one was that good an actress, sources said.