Her Pretty Face

by Robyn Harding

  Shane Nelson’s claims that Amber had murdered the teenager were more contentious. His lawyer had argued that Nelson left the two girls alone, that it was Amber, not Shane, who had caved Courtney’s skull in. The jury didn’t buy it. It was too grasping, too desperate. But many in the online community believed the convicted man.

  Frances couldn’t face the onslaught of information anymore. She needed to talk to someone, to discuss the facts, to verbalize the contentious thoughts swirling through her head. She couldn’t confide in her husband, not yet. Jason would jump to conclusions, he’d panic, he’d blow the whistle. And her spouse couldn’t offer the clarity she sought. Frances needed to connect with someone who’d been there, someone with firsthand knowledge of the case.

  Her initial thought was the prosecutor, Neil Givens, but her research indicated that he had died several years earlier. Stomach cancer. Was it guilt over the deal he’d made with Amber that had caused the tumor in the attorney’s gut? Was it regret that turned his body against him, remorse that made his cells malignant? Had Amber Kunik effectively killed him, too?

  She could easily speak to Amber’s lawyer. He lived a couple of blocks away, she even had his cell phone number. Robert Randolph had negotiated Amber Kunik’s plea deal, had kept her name off sex offender registries, had created a new persona for her. Obviously, he knew everything that Amber had done, and he had forgiven her. Perhaps Frances could, too? She knew that good people sometimes got caught up in bad situations. Young, impressionable women were regularly corrupted, manipulated, and led astray. But they could recover, go on to build a life, have a career, friends, a family. . . .

  It never left them, though. What Frances had done to her sister haunted her. It disturbed her sleep, damaged her self-esteem, informed her every action. Kate Randolph was so confident, so light, so fun and free. . . . Perhaps she was blameless in Shane Nelson’s atrocities. Or, perhaps, she had no conscience.

  That left Shane Nelson’s lawyer. A Google search indicated that he had moved to Palm Beach, Florida. Frances wondered when Martin Bannerman had relocated to the opposite side of the country and why. Was it simply a great place to retire? Or did he want to distance himself from the life he’d built in Arizona defending murderers?

  The retired attorney sat on the board of a public art gallery. It took only a few clicks through the gallery’s site to find his contact information. The phone number stared back at her, tempting her, taunting her. Could she talk to this man who had vociferously argued that her friend Kate was a murderer? Could she accept the things he would tell her? But Bannerman’s job had been to defend his client. He didn’t necessarily believe Kate—Amber—was guilty. She was punching in the numbers when she heard Jason’s car pull into the driveway. She saved the digits, dropped the device, and moved to the door.

  “How was the game?” It was a rhetorical question. Marcus’s glum countenance, his defeated posture, made it clear his team had lost.

  “Terrible.” The boy stepped out of his muddy cleats. He was soaked. Soccer games went ahead, rain or shine. “I’m going to have a shower,” he grumbled, stalking from the room.

  Jason hung up his jacket. “Four nothing for them,” he said, with a grimace.

  “Poor guy. He takes losing so personally.”

  “I suggested that Charles could come over. That seemed to cheer him up.”

  “No,” Frances said, quickly. “Charles is sick.”

  “Someone else then?”

  They shared a look. Marcus had made significant social strides, but still . . . There was no one else. Charles was their son’s only friend; it didn’t need to be articulated.

  “Let him play a video game,” Frances said. “I’m going to the gym.”

  “I thought you weren’t feeling well.”

  “I feel better now.”

  Jason gave her a bemused smile. “You never work out on Sundays.”

  “I’m stepping up my regimen,” she said, grabbing her phone and her keys. “I’ll be back in an hour.”

  She drove toward the gym, her heart thudding with anticipation—or dread. When she was a sufficient distance from her house, she pulled into the parking lot of a daycare center. It was vacant—the children were spending the weekend with their working parents. She pulled out her phone and dialed the number she had saved. The ringing was barely audible over the raindrops tapping on the car’s metal roof, and her pulse pounding in her ears.

  “Hello?”

  She forced a professional tone though her voice was tremulous. “Is this Martin Bannerman?”

  “Yes?” The response was deep, masculine, wary.

  “My name is Frances Metcalfe. I’m calling about Amber Kunik.”

  “I have no comment.”

  “I’m not a reporter,” she said quickly. “I’m her friend. I mean . . . I’m a friend of Kate Randolph’s. That’s the name she uses now. Our sons go to the same school. They’re best friends. Kate and I—Amber and I—are close.” She was rambling, but she couldn’t stop. “I just found out who Kate really is. I’m confused and afraid and I . . . I need to talk to someone who knew her.”

  There was a long pause. Then:

  “You’d be wise to stay away from that woman.”

  “Amber’s changed, though. She’s a wife and a mom now. I’ve known her for a while. She’s kind and funny and caring.”

  “She plays people. She charms them. That’s what sociopaths do.”

  Sociopath. Frances thought about all the compliments Kate had given her, the support and commiseration. Was it all just a game? Was Frances just a toy? A pet to be dashed against the pavement when Kate grew tired of her?

  “Do you . . .” Frances’s throat closed, but she forced the words out. “Do you think she’s still the same person who did those awful things?”

  “Of course she is.”

  “Is Kate—Amber—still dangerous?”

  “Anyone who saw those videotapes knows that Amber Kunik is capable of unspeakable evil.” Bannerman’s masculine voice had become subdued; he sounded older, almost fragile. “What I saw . . . What she and Shane did to that girl . . . I think about it every goddamn day. Some nights, I can’t sleep.”

  Frances could imagine what kept the man awake; the acts she had read about would be seared into the attorney’s brain. “But Amber was just a girl. Shane Nelson abused her. He manipulated her.”

  “Shane Nelson is a piece of shit,” the attorney stated. “He’d been assaulting and raping women for years. But it wasn’t until he met Amber Kunik that a girl ended up dead.”

  The words landed on her like snow sliding off a roof, sending a chill to her very bones. She tried to process the lawyer’s observation, but her brain refused to take it in. She couldn’t accept that Courtney Carey was dead because of Kate. It was too horrible, too surreal. But even as her mind denied the possibility, her body was reacting. She was trembling and sweating. She felt like she might be sick.

  “Thanks for your time,” she managed.

  “Be careful.” He hung up the phone.

  Frances sat for a few minutes, letting her nervous system settle. She breathed deeply as the rain beat down, painting her windshield like an oily canvas. She should turn the key, drive to Curves, and perform her circuit. The exercise might offer some clarity, the endorphins might dissipate the mental fog that clung to her. But she didn’t have the energy. She felt weary, weak, beaten down. Jason would be confused by her prompt return, but she would tell him she’d had a relapse. She was too ill to work out. It wasn’t a lie. She was sick to her stomach.

  She started the car and headed for home.

  daisy

  NOW

  Dear Aunt Marnie . . . The cursor on the laptop screen blinked at her, taunting her to write more. But what could she say?

  I’m Daisy, the daughter of the brother you disowned after he reconciled with his philandering wife. . . . Got any Christmas plans?

  She took a sip of her second green tea. She was tucked in a back corner
of the busy coffee shop at Yarrow Point. If she didn’t keep ordering, she’d have to give up her table.

  It was 3:30 p.m. now; school would be finished. Daisy had skipped. She wasn’t up to facing a spurned Dylan Larabee. But dread wasn’t the only thing that had kept her from school today. Her general lack of enthusiasm for her education had now been combined with an extreme lack of focus. She couldn’t even compose a simple e-mail without her mind drifting to the events of Saturday night. To David.

  He had come when she’d called for him, the growl of that big car sending relief coursing through her as she stood alone, in the dark and the rain. When she’d climbed into the passenger seat, David had looked her over. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Did someone hurt you? Do I need to go in there?”

  The thought of this big strong man defending her honor made her heart feel light and happy. The mental image of him beating the crap out of Dylan made her warm all over. But she pressed her lips together and shook her head. “I just want to get out of here.” And then, shyly, “Can we go to your place?”

  His apartment was empty, a lamp burning in the living room. She sat on the couch while David went to the tiny kitchen, returning, moments later, with a glass of tap water and a large, yellow pill.

  “Take this.”

  “What is it?”

  “Vitamin B complex. It’ll help with your hangover tomorrow.”

  She wondered if he knew how sick she’d been the last time she was here. Hopefully not. She had been sure to clean up after herself. Obediently, she’d swallowed the tablet.

  He’d disappeared into his bedroom then, while Daisy waited: stoned, drunk, but vibrating with nervous energy. When he came back, he had a pillow and blankets. “You should sleep,” he said, propping the pillow against the arm of the sofa.

  “I’m not tired.”

  “I am.” It was late now, close to 2 a.m. She obliged him, lying down, letting him place the blankets over her, appreciating the feeling of his hands on her.

  “Good night, Daisy.”

  “Good night, David.”

  He left her there, lying in the darkness, eyes open, formulating her plan. Her judgment may have been impaired—by the alcohol and the weed—but she was resolute. Despite her inebriation, she’d experienced a sudden clarity of emotion. She waited, her heart fluttering with anticipation, until David was silent in the adjacent room. Then she waited some more, letting him drift into sleep, his defenses down. When sufficient time had passed, she threw the blanket off her and stood. Removing her jeans and shirt, she tiptoed, in bra and panties, to his room.

  The door creaked softly as she entered. “What are you doing?” He was awake, his voice soft in the darkness.

  “I don’t want to be alone,” she said, slipping into bed next to him.

  “Daisy . . . ,” he admonished her, but he let her in, allowed her to curl up next to his warm body. She pressed herself into him, savoring his scent, the softness of his bare skin. Before she could chicken out, she propped herself up on her elbows, and kissed his mouth.

  He didn’t push her away, but his lips remained closed, unresponsive. Still, it felt intimate and arousing—a black-and-white movie kiss, not a slobbery make-out sesh like she’d had with Liam or Dylan. She could taste cigarettes, ever so faintly, and something fresh like cucumber or melon. Her hand tentatively crept up to touch David’s face, her fingers drifting over the stubble on his strong jawline, finding their way into the hair at the back of his neck. She moved her leg over his, crawling on top of him. But he lay like a stone, lips together, body solid and unyielding. She rolled off him.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “This is a bad idea.”

  “No, it isn’t.” Her inebriation made her brave. “I . . . I love you.”

  He turned his head to look at her. “No, you don’t.”

  “I do.” That had to be what this feeling was: intense, uncomfortable, unfamiliar.

  “You’re just a kid,” he said. “You don’t even know me.”

  Humiliation burned her face, clogged her throat, weighted her chest. A sob shuddered through her. She was so stupid. A stupid fucking child. She had to go.

  But as she climbed out of bed, David caught her wrist and pulled her back down. She didn’t have the energy to free herself, and of course, she didn’t want to. She collapsed on his chest, emotions bubbling out of her. Her tears slicked his skin as he stroked her hair and let her cry on him. Before long, she was exhausted, the pot, the booze, and the night’s events taking their toll. She felt warm and safe and not quite loved, but comforted. Soon, she was asleep.

  Her green tea was cold now, but she took a sip as a group of women in workout gear eyed her table covetously. She turned her attention back to the missive on her screen.

  Dear Aunt Marnie . . .

  She accepted the blinking cursor’s challenge and typed:

  My dad gave me your e-mail address and said that it would be okay to get in touch. I am interested in knowing more about you and your family, and my grandma.

  I hope you will write back to me. Maybe we could even meet one day?

  Sincerely,

  Daisy Randolph

  Without rereading, she hit send.

  As she pretended to drink her tea, staring at the blank computer screen, her mind drifted back to yesterday morning. She had woken up in David’s bed, her mouth dry and fuzzy, a dull ache in her head. She had been curled on her side, facing the window, away from her partner. She had rolled toward him, prepared to make an excuse—I don’t really love you, I was just wasted—but he was gone.

  She’d called an Uber. There was no way she could reach out to Frances this time. The woman would be angry, disappointed, disgusted. Rightly so. Daisy was stupid. She was pathetic. She should have stayed way.

  The cold green tea was almost gone when her phone buzzed in her backpack. It would be David again. She didn’t need to look, but she did.

  We need to talk

  They didn’t. Because there was no point. Daisy had opened herself up, had let herself become attached, and it had blown up in her face. She had romanticized her connection to David into something more than it was, but now the blinders were off. He didn’t care about her. The man had targeted her. She was just another troubled teen, a social pariah, the product of a cold and loveless home. David would have drawn her in, made her feel safe and loved and special, and then . . . what? What did he want with her? Her young mind couldn’t fathom all the possibilities.

  “Excuse me. . . .” It was one of the workout women who had been eyeing her table. “Are you done here?” Her tone was pointed, condescending, like she could intimidate this girl out of her seat. This lady didn’t know who she was fucking with.

  “Nope.” Daisy stood. “I was just about to order more tea.”

  frances

  NOW

  It should not have been this easy to talk to a convicted murderer. But here Frances was, seated at her kitchen table, preparing to have a face-to-face with Shane Nelson. She had never heard of video visitation until a few days ago. But in her hunt for online answers, it became apparent that, after filling out a few forms, ensuring her laptop had adequate software, and submitting her credit card number, she could go to the source. She could ask Shane Nelson himself if Amber Kunik had killed Courtney Carey. It had been his claim when he was fighting for his life, but the fight was over now. He had no reason to lie to Frances.

  Pay-per-view contact between prisoners and the outside world was controversial. Proponents said it improved security, cut down on contraband, allowed for increased group and long-distance visitation. Detractors said it was the prison industrial complex monetizing the basic right of an inmate to connect with his or her loved ones. They said such visitation lacked intimacy, that it was cost prohibitive to poor families. But Shane Nelson was not Frances’s loved one. And she was willing to pay to find answers.

  She had created an account, scanned in a piece of p
icture I.D., and waited. The process was sure to take days, if not weeks. But to her shock, a confirmation e-mail had arrived on Monday afternoon. All she had to do was click a link, and she was taken to a calendar to schedule a video session. She wondered why Nelson had agreed to talk to her. She supposed he was bored, lonely, desperate for any sort of connection. The convict had no family left, no friends, no support system on the outside. Years ago, he had been of interest to reporters and crime writers. There had been books about the attractive young killers, magazine articles, and tabloid-style news programs. Nelson was legally prohibited from profiting from his crimes through any form of media, but that hadn’t stopped his participation. Since time had passed and interest had waned, Nelson must be hungry for attention.

  Frances sat on a kitchen chair, sweating in her pale blue sweater. On the table, her laptop sat open and ready. At precisely 1:30 p.m., three minutes from now, she would invite a murderer into her home. Her mind flitted to Kate. . . . Perhaps this wouldn’t be the first time. But that did nothing to quell her nerves.

  She had blown out her hair, donned the flattering blue sweater, and applied a peachy lipstick. Why? It had been automatic—like prepping for a job interview or a meeting with the principal. But now, as she watched the minutes pass in the bottom corner of the laptop screen, she regretted her efforts. There were women who were infatuated with convicts, who fell in love with men behind bars. Handsome killers had no shortage of admirers. She hoped her hair and makeup didn’t send Nelson the wrong message.

  Suddenly, the screen flickered, and the inmate appeared before her. Frances’s jaw clenched as she took in his lined but still loosely handsome face. Shane Nelson was over fifty now, and thinner than he had been on the outside, shriveled like a dried apricot. Usually, prisoners got bigger while incarcerated, but Nelson was in segregation; he was protected. There was less impetus for him to get strong.

  He wore the horizontal black-and-white striped uniform of a bygone era. (Maricopa County was one of the few prison systems in the U.S. to reintroduce the outdated garb.) Frances assumed it was a humiliation tactic: prisoners should look like prisoners. The convict’s head and shoulders filled the screen perched in front of her. It felt uncomfortably close, like the prisoner was there, in her messy kitchen, with her. She had a sudden urge to wipe off her lipstick.