Her Pretty Face

by Robyn Harding

  Joining Marcus on the front steps, she unlocked the door. “Do you want to watch a movie?” She forced a cheerful tone. “Or play a video game?”

  “Sure.”

  Frances’s outburst was forgiven.

  daisy

  NOW

  She should have suggested they go for coffee or boba or ice cream. She should have remained in a public place, a safe space. But instead, she had climbed into David’s car like some silly little girl lured by a stranger’s candy. They were cruising north on the 405, had been for several minutes before Daisy’s voice cut through the weighted silence.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Somewhere we can talk. Somewhere private.”

  “Why do we need privacy?”

  But he didn’t answer; he just turned on his indicator and took the next exit. They were in a horsey area now, a bucolic swath of forest riddled with bridle trails. Daisy had enough common sense to be uneasy as she stared out at the naked deciduous trees, creepy and skeletal without their leaves. She had never feared David. In fact, she had felt safe with him, comforted by his presence. But something had changed. The man now seemed cold, aloof, distant. He seemed entirely capable of harming her.

  Eventually, the flora thickened, and the traffic thinned. David slowed the powerful car, turning into a parking area surrounded by dense conifers: cedars, firs, and hemlocks. The vehicle grumbled into the lot, empty but for an abandoned pickup truck with a long horse trailer attached. A group of riders were somewhere in the thick woods, but until they returned, David and Daisy were alone. Secluded. He stopped the car and cut the engine.

  There was no sound but the thudding of Daisy’s heart. She was legitimately afraid now. She glanced over at her driver, silently staring straight ahead, into the dark forest. She couldn’t read his thoughts, his intentions; she had never known what he was thinking. But there was only one reason a man would take a teenage girl into the depths of the forest. Then David spoke.

  “I came here, to Bellevue, to find you.”

  She had known their meeting was no coincidence, had been sure it was fateful. But why? He turned toward her, answering her unasked question.

  “I came here to hurt you.”

  The heavy trees seemed to close in on them, choking out the light and the air. Fear pressed down on her, making it hard to breathe, to think, to move. Suddenly, the way David looked at her, without passion or warmth, with detached, almost clinical interest, all made sense. She was his target. She was his prey.

  “Do you know who Courtney Carey is?”

  “No,” Daisy croaked, her hand slipping to the buckle of her seat belt.

  He shook his head. “Of course you don’t.”

  “Who is she?”

  “She’s dead. Murdered.”

  Something terrible was going to happen to Daisy now, she knew it. And she deserved it. She had been so stupid, so trusting, so gullible. Strangely, her mind flitted to her Aunt Marnie. If David killed her right now, they would never have a chance to meet. No . . . not now, not yet. She pressed the button to release her seat belt and reached for the door handle. But David was faster. He grabbed her arm in his strong grip, halting her. He leaned across her, slamming down the manual locking button.

  “Don’t run.” It was a threat.

  “Please,” she pleaded, tears spilling from her eyes. “Just let me go. . . .”

  “I will . . . but there’s something you need to know.”

  She nodded, but her survival instinct would not let her trust him. Not again. She pressed her lips together to stifle a sob. Her life may have sucked, but she didn’t want to die.

  He kept his eyes on her. “I came here to get you, Daisy. I was going to take you away, fuck you up, destroy you. . . . It was her I wanted to hurt, not you.”

  Her?

  “But when I got to know you, I couldn’t do it. Because it wouldn’t hurt her. She wouldn’t even care.”

  Daisy’s mind scrambled to make sense of his words. Who was he talking about? She could think of only one possibility.

  “You’re as damaged as I am. She destroyed us both.”

  Daisy had to clarify. “Who did?”

  His hazel eyes met hers. “Your mom. She’s evil.”

  The epiphany was almost physical, her skin prickling with awareness, understanding, realization. Her family didn’t move because of her dad’s work: they were on the run. They rarely made friends because they were in hiding. And Aunt Marnie had not disowned them because Daisy’s mom had had an affair. Kate Randolph had done something worse . . . so much worse. She had done something unforgivable.

  The girl turned in her seat to face David, no longer afraid. Not of him, anyway.

  “Who is my mother?” she whispered. “And who are you?”

  frances

  NOW

  When Jason arrived home, Frances was seated at the kitchen table nursing a glass of white wine. It was her third, as indicated by the half-empty bottle perched before her. Jason’s eyes drifted over the evidence, but he dutifully kissed her cheek. “How was your day?”

  “Terrible.”

  Jason lowered himself onto a neighboring chair. “What happened?”

  Frances downed the rest of her wine. “Get a glass,” she urged him. “You’re going to need it.”

  “Just tell me.” Her partner’s handsome face was troubled. “Is Marcus okay?”

  “He’s fine. For now.” She made a grab for the bottle, but he was quicker, moving it out of her reach.

  “What’s going on, Frances?” He sounded justifiably anxious. “Where’s our son?”

  “In his room. He’s on his iPad.” Frances recalled a time, not so long ago, when monitoring her son’s screen time had been paramount.

  “Tell me.”

  “Daisy Randolph was seeing this older guy. She went to his apartment, near U-Dub, and she drank too much. She called me to pick her up the next morning. The man, David, wasn’t there, but I looked around his apartment for some clue to his identity. And I found a photograph . . . of Kate.”

  “Why did this guy have a photo of Kate?”

  “I don’t know.” Frances retrieved the picture from under the stack of magazines and mail and slid it toward her partner.

  Jason picked it up and stared at the image. “It was taken a long time ago, obviously, but it looks like her.”

  “Turn it over.”

  His lips barely moved as he read the words out loud. “Amber Kunik.” Frances watched him absorb the information, recollect the name, place it in context. His dark eyes met his wife’s. “Jesus Christ.”

  Frances’s eyes welled with tears. “I know.”

  “I remember this case,” Jason said, getting up to retrieve a wineglass. “It was all over the news. Amber and her boyfriend killed that young girl. . . . She was only fourteen.”

  “Fifteen.”

  Jason poured himself a glass, topped up Frances’s. “Are you sure it’s Kate? Could there have been some kind of mistake?”

  “She’s changed her hair and makeup. She’s older, of course. But it’s her.”

  “This is . . .” He drank some wine. “This is unbelievable.”

  The tears seeped from Frances’s eyes. “It is.”

  “She’s been in our home. Marcus slept over there.”

  “She did some horrible things in the past,” Frances said, “but there’s no evidence she actually killed that girl.”

  “She was in on it. Everyone knew that.”

  “That was Shane Nelson’s testimony, but it was never proven. He was trying to save himself.”

  Jason shook his head. “I remember when those tapes came out after she cut her deal. This pretty, middle-class girl who was capable of such evil . . .”

  “She was abused by Shane Nelson. Mentally and physically. She was only twenty.”

  “She’s a psychopath. Why are you defending her?”

  “I’m not.” But she was. Why? Was it residual loyalty for the friendship Kate had sho
wn her? Was she trying to justify the love she had felt for the woman? Or was it because of what Frances herself had done? She had also stolen a daughter from her parents. From her own parents . . . She looked at the concern etched on her husband’s face, and wondered if she could finally tell him the truth. Jason knew her sister had died tragically young: an undiagnosed heart defect was the story. Could she admit her role in her sister’s demise? Was it finally time?

  But Jason stood then. “I’m going to call the school.”

  “What for?”

  “There’s an infamous murderer in the parent community, Frances. People have a right to know.”

  “Is that necessary?”

  “She could volunteer in the classroom. She could invite kids over to her house for playdates. She’s dangerous.”

  “Kate never volunteers. And Marcus is the only kid who goes to Charles’s house.” Frances stood, too. “I really don’t think she’d do anything. The rates of recidivism for women are super-low.”

  “Stop minimizing what Kate’s done!” Jason barked. He picked up his cell phone, nestled among the kitchen counter clutter. “I’m calling the school.”

  Frances’s response was muted in the face of her husband’s uncharacteristic anger. “The office will be closed now.”

  Jason looked at his watch, put the phone down. “Fine. I’ll call tomorrow. I’ll go in and talk to the principal.”

  Frances’s voice was a whisper. “But Charles . . .”

  “Fuck.” Her husband ran his hands through his cropped hair.

  “He’s a sweet boy. He’s Marcus’s only friend. Marcus needs him.”

  “Marcus is stronger than you think, Frances. He’ll be fine.” Jason drained his wineglass. “I’m sorry about the kids, I really am, but you don’t seem to realize how dangerous Amber Kunik is. You were removed from the crime, up here in Washington, but I lived in Denver then, one state over. My sister was the same age as the murdered girl. My parents were terrified, everyone was. Amber Kunik is evil, Frances. Kate is evil.”

  “Robert said not to tell anyone. He said Kate has a legal right to privacy.”

  Her partner emitted a humorless snort of laughter. “Fuck Robert. What kind of sick bastard marries a cold-blooded killer?”

  The irony of his remark was lost on him.

  “I knew she was coming on to me that night after we got high. They’re not our friends. They probably invited us over to have some fucking orgy.”

  “No . . .”

  “They’re sick, Frances. They’re perverts with no moral compass. How else could Robert forgive what Kate did?”

  Tears flowed freely down her cheeks as she took another drink of wine. It was room temperature now and suddenly tasted too sweet, too heady, but she needed to deaden herself to the nightmare unfolding before her. She had cried enough tears for herself, but so many others would be impacted by this revelation. Charles Randolph would be ostracized, bullied, if not expelled. Marcus would be devastated and alone. And Daisy . . . The girl already seemed to be teetering on the brink; what would become of her now? A sob shuddered through Frances’s chest.

  “I know you don’t want to lose your friend, but I’m right about her, Frances. You know I am.”

  She wanted to explain that she was crying for Kate’s kids, for Marcus, not just for herself. She wanted him to come to her, to hold her and comfort her, but he didn’t. He headed to the stairs to check on their son. Jason was frightened and angry—he had every right to be. She’d brought a child-killer into their lives. . . . But he would forgive Frances, eventually. What Kate had done could not be forgiven; Frances knew that, but it didn’t stop her heart from aching with loss.

  She moved to the fridge and retrieved another bottle of wine. Then, digging into the back of a high cupboard, she removed her emergency stash of junk food: chips, boxed cookies, soft licorice.

  This was an unequivocal emergency.

  The National Observer Thursday, December 11, 1997

  SHANE NELSON GETS LIFE IN PRISON

  Courtney Carey’s killer avoids death penalty due to victim’s age

  KENNETH WILCOTT

  Phoenix

  Shane Nelson has been convicted of first degree murder in the death of Tolleson teenager Courtney Carey. Nelson, 29, has also been convicted of kidnapping, forcible confinement, aggravated sexual assault, and committing an indignity to a human body. Today, Justice Noel Calder sentenced Nelson to life in prison with no eligibility for parole. Nelson avoided the death penalty because he has no prior convictions and Courtney Carey was 15 years old at the time of her death. In Arizona, the murder of a person under 15 is considered a capital crime, resulting in a death sentence.

  Testimony by Nelson’s girlfriend, Amber Kunik, 21, was pivotal to the Phoenix man’s conviction. In exchange for her testimony, Kunik cut a deal with the prosecution, pleading guilty to a lesser charge of manslaughter for her role in the murder. While Nelson has maintained that it was Kunik who murdered Carey, the prosecution honored their deal with the witness, though videotaped evidence later showed Kunik’s enthusiastic participation in the torture and degradation of the victim. Kunik has already begun serving a 6-year sentence in Perryville’s Women’s Prison.

  frances

  NOW

  Frances sat in her car in the pickup area, waiting for her son to exit the school. Tomorrow was Thanksgiving, and she still hadn’t bought a turkey, or bread crumbs, or cranberry sauce. The Metcalfes would spend the holiday alone, their little family of three, as usual. Jason didn’t like to fly over the holidays—long lines, delayed flights, lost luggage—so traveling to Denver to be with his family was off the table. They could have easily driven to Spokane to spend it with Frances’s parents, but they never did. She blamed traffic. She blamed weather. But the truth was, no one could be grateful when the Downies were all together. The family would only focus on what they had lost.

  Still, Frances always tried to make the occasion special. Jason and Marcus both loved her homemade pumpkin pie. She didn’t make her own crust (she wasn’t a pioneer). She bought a gluten-free crust from a rice bakery, but she added her own blend of spices to the canned pumpkin, and whipped her own cream. This year, store-bought pie would have to suffice . . . if there were any left. She should have been more organized. But since the revelation about Kate, Frances had ceased to function.

  That wasn’t entirely true. She still made her son’s breakfast in the mornings, still drove him to and from school, ensured he did his homework and went to bed on time. But she had not gone to the gym, had not cleaned the house, had not cooked a proper dinner since learning her friend’s identity. It had been a week; twenty hours since she’d told her husband. Surely the shock would soon subside and she would emerge from this fog. Eventually, the tension between her and Jason would abate and they could have a conversation beyond their current stilted discourse about chauffeuring Marcus to his activities. It was going to be a tense holiday.

  There was a brisk rap at her car window, and Frances jumped in her seat. She turned to see the taut visage of Allison Moss framed in the glass. To Frances’s surprise, she felt a swell of relief. It was now Kate’s presence she dreaded, not this tiny woman’s. Turning the key in the ignition to the right, she lowered the automatic window.

  “Hi, Frances.” Allison’s words were clipped, anxious. “I was wondering if you’d seen this?” She held up her iPhone.

  Frances peered at the device: on the small screen was a letter from Forrester Academy.

  “I haven’t checked my e-mail in a while. . . .” As she spoke, she rummaged in her purse for her phone.

  “It’s very concerning,” Allison said, standing by as Frances checked her messages. The missive was there, in her in-box. She opened it and read.

  Dear Parents and Guardians,

  It has recently been brought to our attention that a member of our Forrester community has a very serious criminal record.

  Jason had done it. He’d spoken to the principal.
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  This individual does not have a role in the classroom, but has access to school grounds and common areas. While this person has served their sentence, and is free in the eyes of the law, we understand that this knowledge may cause concern among our parents. Please be assured that your child’s safety is paramount to the staff and administration at Forrester Academy.

  If you would like to discuss this issue with the principal, we ask you to call the office and make an appointment. Please note that the school will not reveal the name of the individual to protect the safety and privacy of the entire Forrester community.

  “At first, I thought it was a janitor,” Allison said. “Or a gardener.”

  “Maybe. . . .”

  “But why would they protect his privacy? Why wouldn’t they just fire him?”

  “Maybe he has a contract?”

  “Please . . .” Allison rolled her eyes, as though a mere janitor or gardener having an employment contract was the most ludicrous thing she’d ever heard. Frances was reminded why she had once entertained the idea of bludgeoning this woman with a chocolate fountain.

  “It can’t be a teacher,” Allison continued. “I asked about background checks when we applied. It has to be a parent. Maybe of one of the scholarship kids.”

  “We shouldn’t make assumptions.”

  “The school can’t keep this kind of information from us. We have a right to know if our children are at risk.”

  There would be a witch hunt now, with Allison leading the charge. Kate would be caught, strung up, burned at the stake . . . if she didn’t run away first. Emotion shuddered in Frances’s chest, but she swallowed, forced it down.

  Allison continued. “Kate’s husband’s a lawyer, isn’t he? We must have some legal rights here. Why don’t a few of us get together for drinks? To discuss our options?”

  “I think Robert does environmental law.”

  “The law is the law. I’m sure he’d have some insights.”

  I’m sure he would.

  “I’ll talk to Jeanette. We’ll set something up, after the holiday. We’re going to spend a few days at our chalet in Whistler. You?”