Her Pretty Face

by Robyn Harding

  As she sipped the bitter drink, felt the alcohol take effect, she reflected on the conversation. Her friend had hardly had a Norman Rockwell upbringing, but many—including Frances, herself—had suffered worse, without turning into monsters. If Kate’s home life had been relatively normal, did that mean Shane Nelson was to blame? Frances’s online research indicated that he’d been raised in a violent home, with rampant drug and alcohol abuse. Or did Kate’s stable upbringing mean that she was just plain evil?

  “Anything else, ma’am?”

  The waiter’s presence jarred her from her thoughts. She looked down at the table. She had finished the gin and tonic, the sandwich, and every last fry.

  “Just the bill.”

  * * *

  She would have been on time, but she hit traffic just past Tacoma. An accident: three mangled cars simmered on the side of the freeway. Of course, Frances hoped no one was killed or seriously injured, but she couldn’t help feeling annoyed at the participants. Thanks to their carelessness, she was going to be late to pick up Marcus. Not so late that she needed to call the school—her son was a dawdler and often didn’t emerge from the building until three-fifteen at least—but still . . . late. Marcus would occupy himself on the playground for several minutes before he grew concerned about his mother’s absence. If she could get there by three-twenty-five, he’d barely notice her tardiness.

  The dashboard clock read 3:22 when she finally pulled up to Forrester Academy. She found a spot in the lot, still packed with SUVs, minivans, and the odd station wagon as parents and nannies collected their charges. Hustling toward the playground, Frances assured herself that her son was fine. He would be playing there, alone most likely, or on the periphery of a group of more popular students. Lately, he’d been included in a few group games—soccer and manhunt—and she hoped that would be the case today. His friend, Charles, was always picked up promptly at three o’clock. This meant that Frances would avoid Kate, today at least. At the edge of the play area, she paused, scanning the children for the oversize form of her son.

  “Frances . . .” She turned to see Jeanette Dumas, her nemesis, wearing a smart pantsuit and dangly earrings, standing a few feet away. The titans of industry she had been coaching must have let her off early today.

  “Hi, Jeanette.” She forced a smile, then resumed the visual search for her boy.

  Jeanette moved closer. “Allison Moss told me she invited you and Kate to join the community garden committee.”

  “Uh . . . yeah.”

  “I’ve joined and I hope you’ll consider it, too.” She gave Frances a kind, almost beseeching smile. “I think it’s time to put the whole water bottle incident behind us. I know Abbey can be a little domineering, and some kids react badly to that. And Marcus seems to be fitting in really well now.”

  Only a few weeks ago, Frances would have been thrilled by Jeanette’s forgiveness. But now, with everything she knew, it was irrelevant. “Okay . . .”

  The businesswoman continued. “Marcus and Charles are so cute together. Sometimes it just takes one good friend to make everything right.”

  Unless that one friend turns out to be a murderer. “Have you seen Marcus?” Frances asked. “I’m a little late. I thought he’d be playing out here.”

  “Kate took the boys home.”

  “What?”

  Jeanette was perplexed by Frances’s reaction. “She said she was going to text you. She said you gave the office permission for her to collect him.”

  “Right. I did.” Before she knew who Kate really was, what she had done, the acts she was capable of . . .

  “Kate said she’ll join the garden committee if you do. You two would be a great addition to the team.”

  But Frances was already jogging to her car.

  daisy

  NOW

  Daisy had been loath to return to school, but she couldn’t stay home indefinitely. Despite her dread, her return to Centennial had been anticlimactic. If Dylan Larabee was angry or crushed by her refusal to blow him at his party, he didn’t show it. When she’d spotted him across the foyer this morning, he’d completely ignored her. Tori, Maggie, and their popular crew also seemed indifferent to the rebuff that had taken place in the Larabee parents’ bedroom. They were still chatty, giggly, friendly. It was almost like Dylan hadn’t castigated Daisy, like Liam had. Maybe he was too distracted by the upcoming holiday. It was almost Thanksgiving.

  The Randolphs had no special plans for the occasion; they never did. Daisy had hoped that, after her dad’s trip to see his family, they might receive an invitation to California. Or that her parents might extend one to Bellevue. But of course, her mom would never invite “that judgmental cunt,” Marnie, to visit them. Whatever her mother’s opinion of her sister-in-law, Daisy had been thrilled, last night, when she received an e-mail from her aunt.

  She was in math now, openly scrolling on her phone through the photographs Aunt Marnie had sent her. There was a distinct sibling resemblance between her father and his younger sister. Marnie was tall, like her brother, strong, solid, and athletic. The overbite that gave Robert his resemblance to Goofy was more attractive on a female face, almost sultry. Her aunt had to be in her early fifties; she looked attractive, healthy, kind. . . . She didn’t look like the type of woman who disowned her only brother over his wife’s affair. But appearances could be deceiving.

  Marnie had included pictures of Daisy’s grandparents, grainy shots of a glamorous young couple (didn’t everyone look glamorous in old photographs?) dressed up for a party or a date. It was hard to feel a connection to these strangers though their blood ran through Daisy’s veins. There were some photographs of Marnie and Robert as children, her sophisticated dad a rough-and-tumble boy. Daisy realized this was the first photo she’d seen of her father as a child. Who had he been then? What was he like before all his degrees and his career? Before her mom?

  And then there were the cousins. Christina, Marnie’s daughter, appeared in her graduation outfit, a pretty girl with dark curly hair and a round face inherited from her father. The boy, Josh, closer to Daisy’s age, wore a soccer uniform. There was something Mediterranean in their looks, and Daisy assumed that her uncle Paul must descend from Italy, or Greece maybe. His last name would be a clue, but Aunt Marnie still went by Randolph, and she hadn’t mentioned her husband’s or her children’s surname.

  Her aunt had written a warm note, thanking Daisy for reaching out, expressing regret for not being a part of her life, but not addressing the elephant in the room: Kate Randolph. Marnie hoped that they could meet in person sometime. She had often thought about Daisy and Charles, hoped they were happy and well. It had brought tears to Daisy’s eyes, knowing that her aunt had wondered and worried from afar. That someone, out in the world, cared about her.

  The bell rang, signaling the end of class, the end of the school day, the countdown to the holiday. Daisy didn’t relish four days with her parents and brother, but she had no choice. Maybe the Randolphs would have Thanksgiving dinner with their friends the Metcalfes? At least they could pretend to be a happy, normal, well-adjusted family. Daisy gathered her books and headed to her locker.

  Pale, vegan Mia was there, waiting. Evidently, their friendship was still intact.

  “Wanna get a coffee? Or a smoothie?”

  “Sure,” Daisy said. “Where’s Emma?” Mia and the rosy-cheeked carnivore were usually a package deal.

  “She took an extra day off. She’s gone snowboarding with her family. At Mammoth.”

  “Cool.” It was a platitude only. Daisy couldn’t even imagine a family ski vacation.

  The girls took the bus to the Bellevue Collection, chatting, mostly about Mia’s restrictive diet. The girl had discovered a new vegan ice cream that she was really excited about. Daisy smiled, but she found it hard to focus on Mia’s mundane discourse. Her mind kept drifting away, to the family that didn’t know her, to a man who didn’t love her, to a life she would never have. The wan girl leaned in, lowere
d her voice.

  “So . . . who has a bigger dick? Liam or Dylan?”

  Of course . . . Everyone assumed that Daisy had performed a sex act on Dylan. Why wouldn’t she have? Her encounter with Liam had set a precedent. She was officially easy, promiscuous, the school slut. She didn’t have the energy to fight for her reputation.

  “They were both pretty small.”

  Mia gasped, thrilled, as the bus hissed to a stop. Daisy stood. “This is us.”

  As soon as they disembarked on 8th Street, she heard his voice.

  “Daisy!”

  She turned and saw the big black car parked in front of a garden center, conspicuously close to the bus stop. The driver’s-side door was open and David was standing there, leaning his arms on the door and the roof. His stance was casual, but his gaze was intense.

  “Oh my god,” Mia whispered, her pale face blanching further. “Who is that?”

  Daisy saw David through Mia’s eyes: hot, rugged, menacing, old. . . . “Family friend,” she muttered.

  David closed the door and moved toward them. “I need to talk to you.”

  Daisy’s heart was thudding in her ears, and she hated that he still had that effect on her, even now, after her humiliation.

  “I—I’m with my friend,” she stammered.

  “I’m leaving town,” David stated. “Tonight.”

  “For good?” Her dread was evident in her voice.

  “For good.”

  “It’s okay,” Mia said, clearly flustered by the proximity of the dark stranger. “We can hang out tomorrow.”

  Daisy could have made an excuse, could have simply walked away. But if David was really leaving, she wanted to talk to him, one last time. She turned to Mia and forced a breezy tone. “I’ll text you later.”

  Mia nodded. Daisy could practically see the wheels turning in the girl’s head as she walked away. It would be a scandal—another one—but Daisy didn’t care. Heart thudding, she headed toward David’s car.

  frances

  NOW

  The panic that gripped her as she hurtled toward Kate’s house made one thing clear: she no longer trusted her friend. Marcus had been under Kate’s supervision numerous times, but everything had changed now that she knew her friend’s identity. Frances’s tires screeched on the damp pavement as she turned onto 26th Street and raced toward the Randolphs’ impressive house. Slamming the car into park on the shoulder, she barreled out of the vehicle, sprinting to Kate’s front door. Frances aggressively rang the doorbell several times before trying the door. It was locked. Of course it was.

  Moments later, the door swung open. “Hey . . . ,” Kate said, her smile fading as she sensed Frances’s agitation.

  “I’m here for Marcus.” She pushed her way inside. “Marcus! Let’s go!”

  “Frances, what’s wrong?”

  “I don’t appreciate you taking my son home without my permission.”

  “I texted you. . . . I noticed you were running late, and I didn’t want him left alone at the school.”

  “I was a couple minutes late,” Frances snapped. “I shouldn’t have to hear from Jeanette Dumas that my son has gone home with someone else.”

  Kate remained calm. “You gave the office permission for me to take him. I thought you’d be fine with it. In fact,” she said, an edge to her voice, “I thought you’d appreciate it.”

  “Well, I don’t.” Frances moved to the bottom of the staircase. “Marcus!” she yelled, her voice verging on hysterical.

  The boy’s muffled response came from behind a closed door. “What?”

  “Are you angry?” Kate asked. “Have I done something?”

  “Let’s go, Marcus!”

  “Talk to me, Frances. Whatever it is, we can work it out.”

  Frances whirled on her. “Talking is not going to erase what you did.”

  The words hung in the air for a moment, then their weight settled on Kate. “What do you mean?”

  “You know.”

  Kate’s voice was soft, but her features were hard. “Who told you?”

  Frances wasn’t prepared for this confrontation. Her goal had been to get Marcus and get out, without revealing her hand, without discussing what she knew. She wasn’t ready—emotionally or mentally.

  “I—I figured it out,” she stammered.

  “How?” Kate’s tone was acerbic.

  Should she tell Kate about the photograph she’d found in David’s apartment? The apartment where Daisy had spent the night drinking and doing God knew what else? But she wouldn’t betray the girl’s trust, not now.

  “Marcus!” Frances called, but it was quieter this time, less urgent. The boy would ignore her, she knew it.

  “Let me guess,” Kate said, her voice dispassionate, “You stumbled upon an article about the girl who got away with murder.”

  “Did you?” Frances asked, her voice a croak. “Get away with murder?”

  “It doesn’t matter. I’ve served my time. I’m a free woman. People don’t have the right to follow me and harass me and invade my privacy.”

  Frances said, “It matters to me.”

  Kate hesitated for a moment, her expression unreadable. Was she considering dodging the question? Concocting a fabrication to appease her friend? Or was she going to tell the truth, even if it crushed Frances’s heart? When she spoke, Kate was firm, adamant.

  “No. I didn’t.” She turned then, and marched into the kitchen.

  Frances could have yelled again for her son, could have gone upstairs to collect him, dragged him to the car, and driven home. She could have closed the door on all this ugliness, on her friendship with Kate. But something inside her, something desperate and needy, couldn’t let it go. Cautiously, she walked into the kitchen. Kate was staring out the picture window, her arms folded.

  “What about the tapes?” Frances asked, tentatively. “They show you doing horrible things. . . . They show you enjoying it.”

  Kate kept her eyes on her bright green lawn, her precisely trimmed hedges, her tidy flower beds. “I was tortured and abused. I was under the control of that monster. I was a screwed-up kid who got sucked into a nightmare, and I paid for it.” She turned then, faced her friend. “I still pay for it.”

  Her repressed but evident anger confounded Frances. “What about Courtney Carey?” she gasped. “Isn’t she the one who really paid?”

  Suddenly, Robert, in his pressed jeans, his blindingly white button-down shirt, was in the kitchen with them. His expression indicated that he had overheard. Or maybe he could just sense his wife’s chagrin.

  “She knows,” Kate stated, flatly.

  The lawyer addressed Frances, his tone impersonal. “Who have you told?”

  “No one,” Frances said, feeling the weight of their eyes on her. “Not even Jason. I’ve been trying to come to terms with it myself.”

  The spouses exchanged an unreadable look, and then something clicked. Kate became Kate again: kind, caring, charming. . . . She moved toward Frances, touched her arm tentatively. “This must have been awful for you. I know it’s a lot to take in.”

  “It is.”

  “You need time and space to process this. I respect that. But I just hope that, eventually, you’ll see that I was a victim, too.” Kate’s eyes filled with emotion; emotion, but not tears. “Our friendship means the world to me. I . . . I don’t want to lose you.”

  Frances couldn’t respond. If she spoke, she would cry.

  Robert said, “Please don’t tell anyone, Frances. The children would be devastated.”

  She nodded her compliance.

  “And Kate has a legal right to privacy. Any invasion of that could constitute harassment.”

  Was it a threat? Was Robert going to sue her if she confided in someone? Have her arrested for sharing their dark secret? He had moved to his wife now, placed a protective arm around her shoulders. Frances suddenly felt like she had broken into their house.

  “I’ll get Marcus,” she said, hurrying out o
f the room.

  * * *

  Driving home, Frances fought back tears. Her son, being an appropriately self-absorbed adolescent, hadn’t picked up on the tension between Frances and Kate, hadn’t noticed his mother’s quiet, shaky demeanor. She didn’t want to upset him by falling apart. That would be reserved until she was behind a locked bathroom door.

  “Can Charles sleep over this weekend?” The boy’s voice jarred her from her reverie. Marcus was beside her, in the passenger seat. On his own, without her prompting, he had graduated from the backseat.

  “I don’t think so, Marcus.”

  “Why not?”

  Because his mother killed a teenage girl.

  “It’s a busy weekend. You have martial arts and soccer.”

  “Not at nighttime, though. Why can’t Charles come over at nighttime? We’ll just be sleeping. And in the morning, I’ll go to martial arts and he can go home.”

  “It’s not a good time.”

  “That’s not fair.”

  “Life’s not fair,” she muttered, pulling into their driveway.

  “Why can’t I have a sleepover?” Marcus whined. “Kate would say yes. She always lets us. Why are you so mean?”

  Frances slammed the car into park and turned to face her son. “Mean? You think I’m mean? You don’t know what mean is. You don’t have a fucking clue.”

  The boy’s eyes widened with shock and Frances felt sick. She shouldn’t have taken her anger out on Marcus. Her son could be difficult and frustrating, but he was innocent and good. And when all this came out, he would be hurt by it, too.

  “I’m sorry, honey. I’m just having a bad day.”

  Marcus nodded slightly and unbuckled his seat belt. He climbed out of the car and headed to the front door. Frances stayed behind the wheel for a moment, eyelids closed. Her friendship with Kate was over—it had to be. The camaraderie she and her son had enjoyed must come to an end. Once Jason knew, when the community found out, there would be no going back.