Her Pretty Face

by Robyn Harding

  At that moment, Frances spotted her son, moping toward the car. “There’s Marcus,” she said. “I’ve got to get him to soccer.”

  “But soccer’s canceled for Thanks—” The whirring of the window closing cut Allison off. Marcus climbed in beside his mother. Frances stepped on the gas as her son buckled his seat belt.

  “How was your day?” she asked, as they traveled.

  “Sucked.”

  “How come?”

  Marcus stared out the side window. “I don’t know. . . .”

  But Frances did. She didn’t want to grill him, didn’t want to set him off, so she drove in silence for several minutes. Finally, when they were a few blocks from home, she made her inquiries.

  “Was Charles at school today?”

  “No.”

  “Is school hard without Charles?”

  “It’s okay, I guess.” The boy kept his eyes on the familiar scenery. “I like it when he’s there, though. I feel more relaxed. I don’t get so angry and frustrated.”

  Frances would not break down in front of her son. Her tears were limited to the shower now, where she let herself weep with abandon.

  “Maybe Charles is sick?” Marcus said, turning toward her. “Maybe we could take him some soup or something?”

  “I think they went away for Thanksgiving,” Frances lied.

  The boy’s gaze drifted out the window again. “Where did they go?”

  “Palm Springs, I think.”

  “Charles didn’t tell me.”

  “He must have forgotten.” She turned onto their street. “Or maybe he didn’t mention it because Palm Springs is kind of boring for a kid.”

  He turned toward her again. “What do you do there?”

  “Golf mostly. Sit in the sun and read.”

  “Yuck.”

  She chuckled. “Yeah . . .”

  “How come Daisy didn’t go with them?”

  Frances was confused. “She did.”

  Marcus pointed out the front window. “She’s sitting on our front steps.”

  Frances saw the slender girl, her young face dark and troubled—and her stomach plunged. Something was very wrong in Daisy’s world.

  “Oh, right . . . ,” she said, covering, “Daisy stayed behind to work on a school project.”

  She parked the car and Marcus climbed out his side, leaving Frances to collect his backpack from the floor in front of the passenger seat. The boy paused at the bottom of the steps, waiting for his mother. He was shy and awkward around pretty, teenage Daisy, which Frances considered a good indication of his normalcy. Daisy was standing now, her expression still dour.

  “Hi,” Frances said brightly, like she’d been expecting the girl, like her presence was not unusual, not foreboding of terrible news.

  “Hey.”

  Frances unlocked the door and ushered Marcus into the house. “Go get changed and get a snack,” she instructed. “There’s cut-up fruit in the fridge.”

  Obediently, her son headed for the staircase to his room. When he was out of sight, Frances closed the door and faced Daisy on the front porch.

  “Did you know?” The girl’s tone was accusing.

  For a moment, Frances considered playing dumb, pleading ignorance. But if this girl knew what Frances knew, she would need someone. That night, almost a month ago, when Frances had volunteered to be there for Kate’s daughter, she could never have fathomed this scenario.

  “I just found out,” Frances said. “How did you—?”

  “Is it true?” the girl snapped.

  Frances looked down at her small concrete porch, littered with dead leaves and dust that she should have swept up. “Yes,” she said, softly. “Your mom is Amber Kunik.”

  “Oh my god.” The pretty gray eyes, so like Kate’s, filled with tears. “My mom is a killer.”

  “There were extenuating circumstances,” Frances responded. “She was abused by her boyfriend. She was afraid. She had no choice. . . .”

  “Really?” Daisy’s voice was cold. “Or was that just what she said to get out of a life sentence? To make Shane Nelson pay for what she did?”

  Frances pressed her lips together, exhaled through her nose. She could feel the familiar flutter of panic in her chest. She was in way over her head here, scrambling for words, terrified of saying the wrong thing. Marcus was alone in the house, could be getting into all sorts of trouble, could be eating gluten at this very moment.

  Daisy continued. “Courtney Carey was a girl just like me. She had a little brother, just like me.” Her voice cracked, but she continued. “All these years, I thought there was something wrong with me. And there is. I’m the child of a killer. I was raised by a murderer.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with you, Daisy. You’re a good kid.”

  The girl kept talking, almost to herself. “My mom doesn’t love me, she hasn’t for years. I thought it was my fault. But maybe she just can’t . . . because she’s a monster.”

  Frances felt something defensive well up inside her. “She’s not a monster. Just . . . talk to your mom about all this. I’m sure she can explain.”

  “How can I talk to her?” Daisy’s voice was shrill. “Charles and I could be in danger.”

  “You’re not in danger,” Frances said, confident for the first time. “Your mom would never, ever hurt you.” She saw the girl take this in, accept it as fact. Their relationship may not have been close, but Daisy had never feared Kate.

  Frances reached for the girl’s hand, continued in a gentle voice. “The person who did those horrible things—Amber Kunik—that’s not your mom. She’s changed. Your mom is a kind, honest person now. She would never do anything. . . .” But she trailed off. Kate had come on to Jason, had lied to Frances, had killed Charles’s gerbil. . . .

  Daisy pulled her hand away. “What?”

  “Nothing,” Frances said, because it was true. In the scheme of things, flirting, lying, putting a rodent out of its misery were nothing. “Your mom is Kate Randolph. And she’s a good person.”

  “Will you still be friends with her?”

  The panic fluttered out of Frances’s chest, into her throat. “No,” she whispered. “I wish I could, but I can’t.”

  Daisy nodded, eyes shining with emotion. “Nice that you have that option. But what am I supposed to do?”

  Frances could see the girl’s desperation, her loneliness, her fear. She knew what the kid wanted: to be held, comforted, to have someone step in and take care of her. Frances could be that person. She could take Daisy in her arms right now, take her inside, send Jason to collect her belongings when he got home from work. Frances could be Daisy’s champion, her protector.

  But then she considered Kate. Whatever the woman had done in the past, Frances knew she could not hurt Kate this way. Kate had paid her debt to society. It was not Frances’s role to punish her further. She would not usurp Kate’s child, make the girl hate and fear her own mother. Frances recalled her own mom and dad, how they had ceased to live after Tricia died. Frances could not take another daughter from her parents.

  “Go home, Daisy. Talk to your mom. It’ll be okay.”

  The look on the girl’s face was a knife in Frances’s heart: disappointment, pain, betrayal. . . . But she gave a slight nod of acceptance and turned away.

  Frances watched her descend the steps and walk down the drive. Her departing form was tall and graceful. She even moved like her mom. Suddenly, a thought struck Frances.

  “Daisy!” she called. “Who told you? Was it David? Who is he?”

  But the girl just kept walking. She never looked back.

  dj

  THEN

  With his sister’s killers behind bars, life became a new sort of normal. DJ went back to school. He looked after his father: cooking, cleaning, helping him get to bed when he was too drunk to walk. The boy didn’t mind, not really. He just wanted to make his dad’s life easier—to keep him happy, to keep him from leaving. DJ missed his mom and his sister, but he had
his video games and he had his junk food. When he was playing, when he was snacking, he was numb. He didn’t have to think about all that he had lost.

  He wondered if his mother knew about the conviction. Perhaps the prosecutor had written to her? He knew that his dad would not have bothered to communicate the news to his mom. And DJ didn’t either. His mom’s letters continued to come, one every ten or twelve days. She was feeling better, she said. Her family was caring for her and she was getting stronger all the time. She never mentioned the trial or the crime or even his sister. And she never asked him to come. She never said that she was ready to be his mom again. And so, he never wrote back.

  DJ and his dad lived in a toxic fugue for nearly six years, the boy eating his feelings, the man drinking his. The liquor made his father sick and yellow. He refused to see a doctor, but it was clear to DJ, to anyone, that his dad would die soon. DJ felt no sorrow at the thought. Not because his father had been cruel and abusive, physically, verbally, and emotionally. But because DJ had become inured to loss. It felt like his destiny.

  His eighteenth birthday coincided with the release of one of his sister’s killers. He and Amber Kunik would be granted their freedom the same year. DJ had a few months on her, though. He was a man; she was still incarcerated. As a legal adult, he applied for visitation. He didn’t know why, but he needed to see Amber in person. He had been a child when he’d sat in the courtroom and watched her play with the lawyers, the judge, and the jury. He wasn’t sure his perceptions, his memories, could be trusted. It was doubtful that the inmate would accept DJ’s request, but he had to try. Surprisingly, she agreed to his visit.

  Amber Kunik was in a women’s facility with minimal security. In the eyes of the law, she was not a cold-blooded murderer. They met in a sterile room furnished with utilitarian tables and chairs. Around them, husbands, mothers, and children visited their inmates. Two guards stood sentry: a sleepy-looking male and a young, wiry female. The boy knew that, if he wanted, he could lunge across the table and strangle Amber before they reacted. With his considerable weight, they wouldn’t be able to tear him off in time to save her life.

  His sister’s murderer had not changed much since the trial. She looked healthy and slim. She was wearing makeup, which surprised him.

  “Why did you want to see me?” she asked, her tone suspicious, eyes wary.

  He felt a strong and undefinable surge of emotion. “I—I don’t know. I just had to.”

  Her face softened. “I’m sorry about your sister,” she said, in that sweet voice he’d heard on the stand. “She was a beautiful girl and she didn’t deserve what happened to her.”

  Was this why he had come? To hear her apologize?

  “I feel terrible for what Shane and I did to your family,” she continued. “I was young and confused and stupid, and I’ll never forgive myself.”

  He accepted this with a nod, his throat clogged with loss.

  “How are your parents?”

  He broke down then, fat tears rolling down his plump cheeks. He told her everything—about his mother’s abandonment, his father’s drinking and abuse. He told her how he couldn’t stop eating, how it was the only way to make the pain go away. She listened, her pretty face twisted with sympathy. When he had finished, she opened up about her own family. Her father had been arrested for solicitation, humiliating both Amber and her mother. Her mom’s blind loyalty to her husband had felt like a betrayal. Shane Nelson had offered an escape. He was older, handsome, charming. But he was sick, a sadist, a deviant.

  DJ and Amber, an unlikely pair, connected through their pain. Their conversation segued into common interests, shared likes. They were both fans of Friends; they loved Tom Cruise and chocolate. When their time was up, Amber bestowed on him that infamous smile. “Maybe you could visit me again,” she said. “I’ve still got three more months.”

  DJ nodded. His heart felt strange, lighter. Was it forgiveness seeping into the constricted muscle?

  “Next time you come, could you bring me a little treat?” she continued, in the same girlish voice. “The food in here is terrible.”

  He smiled at her. “Chocolate?”

  She smiled back. “How about an Oreo Blizzard?”

  He looked at her open, innocent face. Was it possible she didn’t remember connecting with his sister over the frozen dessert? Had she forgotten using it to lure Courtney to her death? No . . . the bitch had been playing with him. He was a diversion, a distraction, a toy. His childish observations had been accurate. Amber Kunik was a psychopath, just like Shane Nelson. He stood then, his bulk shifting the table. She remained seated, watching him, her pretty face blank and innocent, but for a cruel glimmer in her eyes.

  He turned and left. He never went back.

  frances

  NOW

  The Thanksgiving holiday brought a thaw in the Metcalfes’ marital relations. Over a substandard turkey dinner finished off with a greasy, store-bought pie, Frances and Jason put on a happy façade for their son. But when the meal was over, and Marcus had gone to bed, they cleaned up in tense silence. Finally, as Frances was hand-washing their wineglasses, she tentatively broached the subject they had been avoiding.

  “Did you talk to Principal Stewart?”

  “Yep,” Jason said curtly, dropping a plate into the dishwasher. “I told you I was going to.”

  “He sent out an e-mail to all the Forrester parents.”

  “I saw it.”

  Frances placed a wineglass in the drying rack. “So what’s going to happen now?”

  “I don’t know,” Jason said, his tone defensive, “but at least the administration can keep an eye on Kate. They can make sure she’s not alone with any kids, that she’s not a danger to anyone.”

  She’s not dangerous. Not anymore.

  But Frances didn’t say this out loud. The way her partner was roughly cramming bowls into the dishwasher told her that he would not be receptive.

  “The power-mommies are curious,” she said, rinsing a glass. “There’ll be a witch hunt. Kate and Charles will be run out of the school.”

  “It’s for the best.”

  Frances turned off the faucet and faced her husband. “Really? You feel no pity for them? Not even for Charles?”

  “Of course I feel sorry for Charles,” Jason said. “And Daisy, too. Amber Kunik should never have had kids.”

  She hadn’t wanted children. It made sense now. It was Robert who had pressured her into it.

  Jason continued, “But I don’t care what happens to Kate—to Amber. . . . I care about keeping the kids in this community safe. I care about Marcus, and I care about you. That’s it.”

  His protectiveness warmed her. Frances had been a lesser wife than Jason deserved, but still he loved her. Even after she’d brought a child-killer into their cloistered universe, Jason remained loyal, loving, devoted. If she told her spouse that she had caused her own sister’s death, he would stand by her then, too. Probably . . . Now was not the time to test that theory.

  “I love you,” she said.

  His response was gruff but sincere. “I love you, too.”

  The détente established, she spent the rest of the weekend concentrating on what she had, not what she had lost. It was Thanksgiving, a time to be grateful, and she was. For her husband. For her son. For the home they had built. Frances didn’t need girl talk over wine, gossipy coffee dates, a friend whose texts made her giggle, or an ally on the school grounds. She had lived her entire life without this kind of camaraderie, and she had been fine, content even. And she would be again . . . when the ache of loss had subsided.

  Focusing on gratitude did nothing to quell the apprehension she felt as she drove her son to Forrester on Monday morning. Her hands on the wheel were clammy and her heart fluttered like a moth at a porch light. Her anxiety could be attributed to the fear of encountering her former friend, and fear for her. Frances knew how cruel the Forrester mothers could be over a harmless prank (okay, peeing in a water bottle ma
y have been more like an inappropriate act of retribution than a harmless prank), but she could only imagine how they’d react when they found out Kate’s identity.

  As she approached the school, she saw them: television vans; reporters with cameras, microphones, and recording devices. There were tripods and lights, cables and booms. Over the weekend, someone had identified the killer in their midst and alerted the media to her presence at Forrester Academy. Was it someone in the office? A teacher? An industrious parent? Now the press was waiting, salivating, for a glimpse of Amber Kunik. A security guard had materialized (he must have been hired when the school learned of the notorious murderer in its parent community), and the stocky man kept the press off school grounds. But they hovered on the periphery, milling on the sidewalk, chatting into phones or to one another, blocking a smooth entry for students and their concerned parents.

  “What’s going on?” Her son craned his neck at the media scrum.

  “I’m not sure,” Frances fibbed, pulling into the parking lot, “but I’m going to walk you in today.”

  “I’m fine, Mom.”

  “I’ll just walk you to the front doors,” she said, parking the vehicle. “I won’t go inside.”

  Her son acquiesced and unbuckled his seat belt. “Is Charles back from Palm Springs?”

  “I don’t know.” If Frances were in Kate’s shoes, she’d never return to Forrester. She’d homeschool her son, buy a cabin in the woods, and go into hiding. But Kate was tougher, braver, stronger. . . . How else could she have gone on living after what she’d done?

  They crossed the parking lot and approached the throng. Gripping her son’s elbow, she led him through the phalanx of media people toward the school. No one turned in their direction, no one paid them any attention; all eyes were trained on the school’s front doors. Kate must be inside. Frances hadn’t noticed her SUV in the parking lot, but how else to explain the press’s laser-like focus on those front doors? Kate must have escorted Charles into class, and now she was trapped. If she came out, she’d be mobbed by reporters. But if she remained cloistered within the school’s walls, she’d be accosted by outraged Forrester parents. Frances would have taken on the media any day.