When they reached the bottom of the staircase that led to the double doors, she paused.
“Bye, Mom.” Marcus moved to ascend the stairs, but she held on to his backpack. Amber Kunik, notorious child-killer, was inside the building at this very moment. How could she send her only child into her lair?
“What are you doing?” her son grumbled, but she held fast to his bag. The boy needed to go to school, needed his routine. The letter from the Forrester administration had assured parents that their children would be safe, protected and cared for by teachers and support staff. And Frances knew, logically, that Kate wasn’t going to go on some child-killing rampage at her son’s private school, but still . . . she couldn’t let go.
At the top of the staircase, the school doors opened. Both Frances and Marcus looked up; the latter with mild curiosity, the former with abject terror. She couldn’t face Kate right now. Not in this public setting, with her son as witness, with cameras trained on them. Frances didn’t know how she’d respond to a face-off with her friend; she was torn between pity and loathing, compassion and fear. A confrontation would be messy.
But it was Jeanette Dumas and her mini-me, Abbey, who exited the doors first. They were trailed by Allison Moss and her daughter, Lila. Jeanette, always sharp in her business attire, met Frances’s anxious gaze as she descended the stairs.
“Have you heard?” she asked.
Frances nodded her response.
“We’re pulling the kids from school until Charles Randolph is expelled,” Jeanette informed her, as Allison and her charge joined them.
“What?” Marcus asked. “Why?”
Allison ignored the boy and addressed Frances. “Forrester was negligent when they allowed Charles to attend this school. They can’t take our money and place our children in this kind of danger. Will you take a stand with us?”
“What kind of danger?” Marcus queried.
Abbey Dumas looked at him, a glint in her eye. “Charles’s mom is a murderer.”
“No, she’s not!” the boy snapped.
“Yes, she is,” Lila Moss piped in. “Charles’s mom killed a fifteen-year-old girl.”
“Stop lying!” Marcus shrieked. Her son’s face was red, sweaty. He was going to lose it, Frances could sense it.
“We’re not lying,” Abbey sniped, and Frances had a sudden urge to pee in the kid’s water bottle herself. Instead, she turned to her son.
“It’s complicated, honey. I’ll explain later.”
“Complicated?” Allison said, eyes wide with shock. “You can’t make excuses for what Amber Kunik did to that girl.”
“O-of course not,” Frances stammered, “I just meant that Kate isn’t—”
Jeanette gasped. “Have you known who Kate really was all along?”
“Oh. My. God,” Allison said. “You knew, didn’t you?”
“No . . . I just found out.” But it sounded disingenuous.
“When?” Allison snapped. “Before the letter from the school?”
“A few days before.”
Jeanette shook her head. “We knew you were desperate for a friend, Frances, but not that desperate.”
Allison snorted. “You risked your son’s safety so you could have a BFF?”
“Marcus was never in danger!”
“You’re in denial,” Jeanette said, so righteous, so superior. “Kate’s a child-killer.”
“Mom”—Marcus was on the verge of tears now—“what’s going on?”
Jeanette reached out and patted Marcus’s shoulder. “You poor thing.”
Frances felt rage well up inside her, and the homicidal caprices she thought she’d suppressed made an appearance. In her mind, she slashed at the women with a machete, delivered a roundhouse karate kick to their jaws, bludgeoned them with a baseball bat. These imaginings, though twisted, were harmless. She had no weapons, she didn’t know karate (even if she had, her plump leg would never have reached towering Jeanette’s jaw), and she knew she would never, ever act on these impulses. What was truly dangerous was how much, in this moment, she wanted to defend her friend.
Kate may have done something terrible in the past, but she’s a kinder person than you are!
Amber Kunik was just a girl! She was under the spell of Shane Nelson! She’s served her time!
Kate’s changed! She’s not Amber Kunik, the child-killer, anymore! She’s my best friend!
But she couldn’t say any of it. It would be social suicide. For her and for her son. And she didn’t know if she truly believed the statements running through her mind or if they were just a product of her anger. She grabbed Marcus’s sleeve.
“Let’s go home.”
* * *
When they were locked in the car, Frances put the key in the ignition. She was vibrating with repressed emotions: rage, fear, sadness. . . . She wasn’t sure she was safe to drive, but she had to get out of there, had to remove her son from the chaos and strife.
“Mom . . . ?” She turned toward the quivering voice beside her, took in her child’s concerned face. “What were they talking about?”
Frances couldn’t hide the truth from him any longer. She took a deep, calming breath and reached for the boy’s hand. “I’m going to tell you everything, Marcus,” she said, clutching his clammy palm in both of hers. “It’s not going to be easy to hear, but you’re mature enough to handle it now. I’d like to wait until we get home, okay?”
Her son nodded his agreement and allowed her to peck his forehead. She was about to put the car into gear when she heard the mob of reporters erupt. Frances and Marcus peered through the windshield at Forrester Academy’s front doors, and saw Kate and Robert emerge.
As the pair descended the steps, the media pounced. The security guard hired to keep the horde off school grounds was no match for them, rats scurrying to feed off a carcass. Cameras flashed. Crews jostled for access. Reporters called out one name, over and over again.
“Amber!”
“Amber!”
“Amber!”
Robert’s arm was wrapped protectively around his wife’s shoulders, his other arm outstretched, pushing reporters away. Kate held her expensive purse up to her face, trying to shield it from the cameras, from the gawking, prying eyes of the press. The reporters were hungry for her, more like sharks than rats, a feeding frenzy. The security guard attempted to escort the couple (had the school hired him? Or had Robert?), his elbows up, hands shoving, blocking, body-checking.
The scrum was moving toward the parking lot now, toward the silver Audi that Robert drove. Frances hadn’t noticed it before, but she saw their destination now. The sleek car was parked in the row in front of her Subaru and to the left—closer to the school, for quick, easy access. Kate and Robert wouldn’t notice Frances and Marcus sitting in their car, watching them.
The group was nearing the vehicle. Robert released his wife so she could move to the passenger door. The security guard splayed his arms, an attempt to hold back the throng and allow his charge access. Kate scurried for the refuge of the Audi, her pricey bag obscuring her face as photographers and cameramen lunged for her. Frances’s tall, confident friend suddenly looked small and vulnerable, a victim. As Kate opened the car door she lowered her purse, and Frances saw her.
The flawless features were set in stone: hard, cold, brittle. Kate was outraged by this intrusion into her life, furious at the violation of her freedom. Was she shielding her face to protect her privacy, or to hide her unsympathetic fury? Frances knew how her friend’s annoyance would look to the general population: callous and self-centered. But Frances understood Kate like few others could. The hard line of her friend’s jaw, the flinty look in her gray eyes. . . . It was a mask, a protective scrim to keep her true feelings shielded. The pretty woman may have looked pissed, but Frances knew her better.
Kate Randolph was terrified.
daisy
NOW
Daisy had spent most of the holiday weekend locked in her room, on her computer, resear
ching her mother. Each click brought a fresh horror; the internet did not care to protect her feelings. She read courtroom transcripts, old newspaper articles, Reddit debates on Amber Kunik’s culpability. . . . Daisy’s dad had defended the beautiful young killer. Her father knew every vile act, every gory detail, and yet he had fallen madly in love with her mother. She and Charles were the product of this sick union.
On Monday, she stayed in her quarters while her parents took her brother to school. Normally, her mom played chauffeur alone, but today, her dad was accompanying them. Moral support? Protection? If Frances Metcalfe knew the truth about her mom, it was only a matter of time before the entire school community knew. And it was only a matter of time before the Randolphs would be run out of town. Again.
When she heard her parents return, their voices tense and strained, she gathered her courage. But it wasn’t until she saw her father’s Audi backing out of the driveway that she emerged. Her heart rattled in her chest as she descended the staircase to the main floor. This conversation needed to take place between Daisy and her mother without distractions. But now that she knew what the woman was capable of, she was slightly afraid to be alone with her.
She was still on the staircase when she heard “Why aren’t you at school?”
Her mom’s voice, in the darkened living room, startled her. The blinds were drawn and the lights were off, leaving the room dim and gloomy. Kate Randolph sat stiffly on the sofa, her hands knotted in her lap.
Daisy reached the main floor and moved tentatively toward her. “I need to talk to you.”
“This isn’t a good time.”
Daisy stopped in the middle of the room. “I know who you are. And I know what you did.”
Kate’s features hardened slightly, but she remained mute. Daisy waited for her mother to deny it, to assure her daughter that it was all an ugly lie, a terrible mistake. She waited for the inquisition: How did you find out? Who told you? But the woman just sat there, in the faint light, her eyes veiled and hollow. Daisy filled the silence in a trembling voice.
“I know that you’re Amber Kunik. That you and Shane Nelson murdered that girl. That you tortured her and raped her, and then you killed her.” Tears slipped from Daisy’s eyes, and sobs made it difficult to get the words out, but she persisted. “I’ve been reading about you online. Courtney Carey was only fifteen. She was just a kid, like me. And you . . . you murdered her.”
Kate sat silent and stoic. She didn’t defend herself, didn’t deny it, didn’t explain.
“Say something,” Daisy cried. “Tell me it’s not true! Tell me Shane Nelson made you do it!” She wanted nothing more than to absolve her mother of blame, to grant her forgiveness. If only Kate would ask . . .
But she didn’t. She just watched her daughter, cold and impassive. Finally, her mom spoke in a calm, level voice.
“You’ve already made up your mind that I’m a monster. There’s nothing I can say now.” The woman stood then. “The community knows, so we have to move. Charles is going to be kicked out of school. You’ll be next.”
“I—I’m not going with you.”
“Suit yourself.” She walked past her daughter toward the kitchen. “But you can still help us pack.”
The words sent a shiver through Daisy. She had felt her mother’s indifference for years, but it had never been so blatantly articulated.
“D-did you ever love me?”
Kate stopped, whirled on her. “Of course I did. You were my baby. But then, you grew up. And you changed.”
“Do I remind you of her?” Daisy said, her voice hoarse. “The girl you murdered?”
“No,” Kate said, with the slightest hint of a smile. “You remind me of me.”
The words were an insult, an accusation. “I—I’m nothing like you.”
“Yes, you are. You’re superior and distant and bored with everyone around you. If the wrong guy came along, offered you thrills and excitement, you’d make the same mistakes I did.”
“I wouldn’t,” Daisy said, but her voice was weak. David had come for her, and she had gone with him, willingly, not knowing who he was or what he wanted. If he had pushed her to do cruel, horrible things, would she have complied?
No . . . Daisy was not her mother.
Kate moved into the kitchen, Daisy trailing after her. Her mom was taking glasses out of the cupboard, setting them on the counter.
“Why did you have kids? You must have known this was no life for us, all this running and hiding.”
“Your dad wanted children and I wanted to make him happy.” She plunked a glass onto the countertop. “He thought we’d be able to live a normal life once I’d served my time. He thought he could protect me, that people would eventually forget. But they don’t.”
Daisy absorbed this, watching her mother busy herself with the glassware. “If I hadn’t found out, would you ever have told me?”
Her mom paused, a wineglass in hand. “I don’t know. . . . That was up to your father.”
“Charles has to know.”
Kate’s beautiful face contorted, an ugly mix of anger and fear. “Don’t you breathe a word of this to your brother.” She stabbed a finger at Daisy. “Do you understand me?”
It was a threat. A frisson of fear ran through Daisy. If pushed, her mother would still be capable of ruthless acts.
Her dad entered then, his arms wrapped around a flat of packing boxes.
“What’s going on?”
Kate set the wineglass on the counter. “Your daughter needs to talk to you.”
She took the packing boxes and left the kitchen.
dj
THEN
DJ sat on the sofa with a bag of Doritos and a container of sour cream dip to watch Amber Kunik’s television interview. Now a free woman, she had agreed to one interview only. She looked demure and pretty, her face slightly fuller than the last time he’d seen her. (He would later learn that she was already pregnant with her lawyer’s child, but she didn’t admit this to the interviewer.)
The reporter, an attractive South Asian woman with a British accent, addressed her subject. “After six years behind bars, you’re a free woman. Why have you chosen to do this interview today?”
Amber’s voice was soft and melancholy. “I want people to know that I’m not a danger to anyone. I was involved in a terrible, horrible crime, but I’m not the same person now as I was then.”
“How have you changed?”
“Well . . . while I was in jail, I worked really hard on my rehabilitation. I did a lot of cognitive therapy, and I was a peer counselor to other inmates. I also read a lot of books about abused women,” she continued. “It’s given me a better understanding of the mental and emotional manipulation that I endured.”
The interviewer pounced on the comment. “So . . . you see yourself as a victim of Shane Nelson?”
“No . . .” She cast her eyes down. “Courtney Carey is the real victim. I just meant . . . I understand the mistakes I made more clearly now.”
She was so convincing, so lovable and charming and full of remorse.
“Do you think the media and the public will ever be able to forget what you did to that innocent young girl?”
“Probably not—not for a very long time, anyway. But I hope that, one day, I’ll be allowed to live a normal life.”
“What will a normal life look like for you?”
“I want to contribute to society, to make up for what I’ve done in some small way.”
“How would you do that?” The journalist leaned forward, intrigued.
“Well, I know that, with my past, I won’t be able to work directly with people. So, I’d like to work with animals. . . .” She smiled a gentle, beatific smile. “I’d like to help sick and injured animals.”
The interviewer smiled, too, impressed with the contrived answer. She resumed her questioning.
“Courtney Carey’s family may be watching this interview. Is there anything you’d like to say to them?”
> Amber looked into the camera then, her eyes welling with tears. “I’m sorry for the pain I caused you. I wish I could go back in time and stop Shane from hurting Courtney. I wish I had been stronger. And braver.” She looked down then, weeping gently. “I’ll have to live with what I did for the rest of my life.”
The interviewer was moved, her dark eyes full of emotion. She reached out and squeezed Amber’s hand.
DJ turned off the TV, went to the bathroom, and puked. The thought of Amber Kunik free, leading a normal life, rescuing kittens, made his stomach revolt. Would she continue to charm everyone she encountered like she’d charmed the interviewer? The detectives and lawyers? Even him, that day at the prison?
He stopped eating after that. The thought of Amber’s evil released on the world had killed his appetite. The processed foods that had given him such comfort now stuck in his throat, turned his stomach. The weight fell off him. He got stronger and healthier. In a weird way, Amber Kunik had saved his life.
His father died eight months later. It was an accident at the meatpacking plant, not the alcohol, that killed him. Booze had contributed, though. His father had been hungover, or possibly still drunk, when he got himself caught in the hide-fleshing machine. DJ didn’t dwell on his dad’s gruesome death. He buried him, sold their small bungalow, and left Tolleson.
DJ went north, went to college, and studied psychology. He made friends, he dated, but he kept his past to himself. He’d had his sister’s name inked beneath his heart, and then he stopped talking about her, about all of it. Amber Kunik, Shane Nelson, and the evil they had perpetrated on his family were relegated to the dark recesses of his brain. Even after he reunited with his mother, they never talked about his sister’s murder. It was too painful, too traumatic for them both to acknowledge.
After grad school, he worked as a drug counselor, eventually returning to university to obtain a doctorate in psychology. Helping people who were sick, broken, and damaged was therapeutic. Focusing on their grief and loss and anguish distracted him from his own. The trauma he’d experienced, though repressed, made him an empathetic, compassionate healer.
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