Her Pretty Face
Page 22
Eventually, DJ came out. He fell in love twice before he met his soul mate. They married in a small ceremony attended by a few friends and his mom. For the first time, DJ felt safe enough, loved enough, to share what he had been through. He told his husband everything, sparing no detail. The words, dammed for so long, poured out of him, every tragedy, every loss, every heartbreak. It was a relief to unburden himself and share his story, to finally have a caring, supportive confidant. He could finally put the tragedy behind him.
Until one day, years later, he got a phone call. And the soft, sweet voice on the line brought the nightmare rushing back.
frances
NOW
Frances kept her son home from school on Tuesday. The child had been shaken by the chaos at yesterday’s drop-off, traumatized by the information he’d learned about his best friend’s mother. Despite Frances’s attempts at a gentle explanation, Marcus was grappling with the revelation that someone he’d liked, trusted, possibly even admired, had done something so criminal. It cemented Frances’s conviction that Marcus could never learn her own truth.
Staying away from Forrester allowed Frances a reprieve from the judgments and criticisms of the other parents. On the surface, it appeared she was supporting the movement to ensure Charles Randolph’s expulsion, but she was still wrestling with her own ambiguity. She knew the horrible things Amber Kunik had done—she didn’t deny the cruelty of her actions. But Frances also knew that Amber had been a girl: young, naïve, easily influenced. Some said Amber was the instigator, that it was she, not Shane Nelson, who murdered that poor girl. But these were opinions, not facts. And they didn’t quell the stirrings of pity she felt for her friend Kate.
Marcus was on his Xbox, anesthetized to the ugliness and drama nipping at the edges of his innocent world. He’d been on there for more than an hour, but Frances didn’t have the heart to tear him away, to make him face reality. He had soccer practice later. The physical activity and socialization would be some compensation for the excess screen time. If only Frances had an activity so all-encompassing that it would distract from her desire to reach out to Kate.
In contacting the pariah she would betray her husband, confuse her son, and devastate her social standing. But she couldn’t ignore the sharp pangs of sympathy she felt for Kate Randolph. Perhaps it was the devastating act in Frances’s own past that fostered her compassion. Maybe it was gratitude for the verisimilitude of friendship the woman had shown her. Kate had befriended her, defended her, made her feel confident, worthy, even loved. Whatever the reason, Frances felt an almost visceral urge to reach out to Kate, to say something to let her know she still cared.
I’m sorry this is happening to you.
You were a good friend to me.
I forgive you.
She tried to distract herself by tidying her house (effectively spreading the piles of clutter between rooms). Her domestic puttering took her to the front porch, to the dust, leaves, and debris she’d been neglecting to sweep up. As she pulled the broom through the mess, she spotted a car. It was a generic blue sedan moving slowly down the street. Something about the vehicle’s pace held her attention. The driver was scanning the street, reading house numbers, looking for someone. An ominous chill ran through her. When the vehicle stopped, Frances knew. . . . The driver was looking for her.
A man got out of the car—mid-thirties, about five-foot-nine, with thinning brown hair and softly handsome features. Instinctively, she gripped the broom handle tighter. It would be an ineffective weapon, but it was all she had. But the man’s demeanor, as he approached, was tentative, nervous. He walked down her drive, then stopped, several feet away.
“Hi,” he said. “Are you Frances Metcalfe?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry to show up like this, but Daisy Randolph contacted me. She asked me to come see you.”
A tightness gripped Frances’s chest. “Is Daisy okay?”
“She’s fine. She’s in a safe place, now. But she’s worried about you.”
“About me?”
“Kate Randolph is not your friend, Frances.” He took a few slow steps toward her. “Kate Randolph doesn’t exist. She can change her name, her look, her location . . . but she’s still Amber Kunik. And she’s still dangerous.”
Frances swallowed. “Who are you?”
“My name is Declan Carey Junior. My friends call me DJ.”
Carey?
He answered the unasked. “Courtney Carey was my sister.”
Emotion welled up inside her—sympathy, gratitude, guilt. DJ Carey, the little boy who had lost his sister in the cruelest way imaginable, had come here to warn her. The selfishness of her grief threatened to undo her. She’d been mourning the loss of her friendship with Kate; Marcus’s friendship with Charles; Daisy’s relationship with her mother. . . . But compared to what DJ and his family had endured, they were nothing.
Her voice trembled. “Would you like to come in?”
She made tea and they sat at her cluttered kitchen table. Discovering her best friend’s repugnant past had put her on her guard, but Frances trusted this man. And only he could provide the answers she so desperately sought. DJ was a psychologist, a field he’d chosen out of a desire to help others, and out of a quest for understanding. What kind of woman murdered a teenage girl? How had she manipulated psychiatrists, law enforcement, and legal teams? Why did she feel no remorse for what she’d done? With Marcus transfixed by video games in the next room, DJ told Frances his story.
He told her about the night his sister didn’t come home; his mother’s scream when the police told them they’d found Courtney’s lifeless body; and the day they arrested Shane Nelson. DJ recounted the trial, Amber’s self-serving testimony, the videotapes that showed her delight in his sister’s torture. He told Frances how his mother had fled, how he had gorged himself with food, how his father drank himself sick—all of them trying to escape their pain.
And he described his visit to the prison, just before Amber was released. DJ had wanted to forgive her, to believe she was a young girl led astray, not a monster. Amber had made him believe that—feigning contrition, fabricating a connection, only to cut him again. She had enjoyed playing with him. He had been Amber’s toy, like his sister before him.
As Frances listened, her heart breaking for all this man had suffered, she had an epiphany. Frances may have caused her younger sister’s death, but she was not a murderer. She had made a terrible, tragic, lethal mistake that had haunted her ever since. But it had been an accident. Sitting here with DJ, a man whose sister had been taken by pure evil, Frances was finally able to forgive herself.
When his story was finished, Frances spoke. “I appreciate you coming here.” She picked up her mug. The tea was cold now, so she set it back down. “Where do you live?”
“San Francisco. But I thought I should talk to you in person.”
“How did Daisy find you?”
“Online. She called my office and left a message. When I heard her name, I knew she must have found out the truth.”
“I’ve been worried about her,” Frances said. “I’ve tried to call and text, but she’s not responding.”
“She needs time to process things,” the psychologist explained. “She’s lived her whole life with a lot of questions. What she’s learned has been devastating, but it’s also given her answers.”
“Where is she now?”
“I don’t know.” He sipped his tea, despite its tepid temperature. “But she assured me she has someone who will get her away from her mother and keep her safe.”
Frances’s stomach dropped. “Did she mention the name David?”
“No. Who’s David?”
That’s what Frances had to find out.
Marcus entered the room then, his face flushed, eyes still slightly glazed from the video game trance. “Don’t I have soccer practice?”
“Yes. Get your gear on.” With a curious glance at their visitor, Marcus hurried away.
“I do.”
“And you’ll stay away from her?”
She hesitated, for only a second, before smiling. “Of course. Thank you for warning me.”
* * *
She had hated lying to DJ Carey, but as she drove to the playing field, Frances knew what she had to do. It was ill-advised and risky, but her mission could not be subverted. Frances had turned her back on Daisy once; she wouldn’t do it again. She had to find the girl, to make sure she wasn’t being hurt or exploited. She had to find out who David was. When she pulled into the lot next to the field, she left the engine running.
Marcus undid his seat belt. “You’re not going to watch me practice?”
Like many modern parents, Frances observed her son’s every activity: soccer drills, tae kwon do training, swimming lessons. Her own parents had regularly attended their daughters’ games, but they’d never watched their children practice. Even her sister Mary Anne, the volleyball star, had managed to excel without constant parental cheerleading.
“I have some errands to run,” she said, brightly, “but I’ll be back to watch the last few minutes.”
Her son seemed almost pleased with this taste of independence. He nodded and jogged off to join his team. She drove away without looking back.
As soon as she turned onto 26th, she saw that the press had found Kate’s home. They milled about on the street, at the edge of the manicured lawn, standing sentry in front of the pricey home. There were fewer than had been at Forrester yesterday. Perhaps some had given up, defeated by the impervious house. The Randolph abode was sealed like a drum: blinds drawn, curtains closed, doors locked. But the stalwarts would wait . . . for Kate, for Robert, for Charles to emerge, and then they would swarm, snapping photos, recording their progress, shouting questions:
Did you kill that girl?
How could you marry a murderer?
Did you know your mom was a killer?
The Randolphs were effectively on house arrest. Except for Daisy. She was gone.
Drawing nearer, Frances saw that a flimsy structure had been erected on the front lawn. It was built with framing lumber, slim pieces of wood nailed together to create a rickety scaffold. It was about six feet high, four feet across, dominating the velvet expanse of grass. Hanging from the crossbar: a noose.
Her breath caught in her throat. Who had built the makeshift gallows? When had they erected it? Why didn’t Robert remove it? Frances pulled over on the shoulder, several yards away, her foot pressing the brake. Part of her wanted to drive off, to head back to the soccer field to watch her son do drills, to distance herself from Kate, from Amber Kunik and her horrible crimes. But she couldn’t.
The reporters whirled on her as she approached. She considered shielding her face, as she’d seen Kate do as she left the school, but that read as guilt. Frances had nothing to hide. With her jaw set, she pushed through the group, relegated to the property lines, and approached the house. Their questions trailed in her wake: “Are you a friend of Amber Kunik?” “How can you stand by her when you know what she’s done?” But Frances kept mum. She could hear the click of cameras, too, her journey preserved for posterity. This visit would haunt her, but it was too late to turn back.
She rapped loudly on the door. Not surprisingly, there was no response. While the press was legally prohibited from entering the property, the Randolphs weren’t about to roll out the welcome mat to visitors right now. France kneeled on the porch and pressed open the mail slot. She positioned her mouth in front of it.
“Kate! It’s me! It’s Frances! Let me in! . . . Please!”
She waited, heart pounding from the exertion and from humiliation. What if Kate refused to open the door? She’d be a laughingstock, if she wasn’t already. What caption would accompany the photo of a plump woman, in her forties, on all fours, yelling into a convicted murderer’s mail slot?
BEGGING FOR A CHILD-KILLER’S FRIENDSHIP
Oh, god.
She struggled to her feet. She could hover for a few more seconds before she’d have to scurry away, tail between her legs, her documented voyage for naught. The friend walk of shame. And then she heard the lock click. The door opened no more than an inch.
“What do you want, Frances?” It was Robert, ever protective, always supportive, even knowing what he knew.
“I want to talk to Kate.” She pressed herself closer to the crack. “Please, Robert. It’s important.”
His deliberation took only seconds, but it felt like minutes as Frances stood, raw and exposed, on the front steps. He must have been conferring with his wife, letting his partner decide on Frances’s entry. Finally, the door opened. Robert stepped back and let her slip inside.
The room was dim, the shades drawn against the afternoon light and the prying eyes and lenses on the property’s edge. A standing lamp in the corner cast a faint glow on the normally pristine living room. Today, it was full of packing boxes, some empty, some half-filled, some packed and sealed. The Randolphs were leaving.
As her eyes became accustomed to the light, Frances looked at Robert. The suave attorney was rumpled, exhausted, tense. Behind him stood his wife. Kate wore jeans, a faded sweatshirt, and no makeup. In her hand, she held a vase wrapped in a protective layer of newspaper. She was paler than usual, her hair slightly disheveled, her expression grim. But still . . . she was so pretty. Backlit by the lamplight, she was almost ethereal.
Robert and Kate exchanged a loaded glance. “I’ll go check on Charles,” he said, heading for the staircase.
The two women faced each other in fraught silence. The look in Kate’s eyes—cool, wary, detached—made Frances uneasy. DJ’s warnings rang in her ears, but she wasn’t afraid, not really. And she had to know that Daisy was safe, that she hadn’t absconded with a predatory older man. Finally, she spoke.
“I heard Daisy’s gone.”
“Who told you?”
“DJ Carey came to see me.”
Kate gave a derisive snort. “What did that fat ass want?”
Jesus.
“He came to warn me. About you.”
Kate didn’t respond, but she set the wrapped vase on an end table.
“Where is your daughter, Kate? Where is Daisy?”
“She went to Robert’s sister. In Berkeley.”
Frances’s shoulders sagged with relief. “How did she find out about you? About your past?”
“David Reider found her.”
“Who is he?”
“He’s Shane Nelson’s son. With that bitch, Louise Reider.”
Frances had read about the boy, only six years old when his father was sent away. The boy’s mother—a tall, attractive brunette, not unlike Amber Kunik—had kept herself and her child away from the press. But there had been glimpses of the pair. And after the sentencing, Louise had sold a tabloid-y story: MY LIFE WITH A KILLER . . . something along those lines.
Nelson’s only child had come for Daisy. Why? Did he want to hurt her? Warn her? Or did he just want to commiserate? They were both the spawn of murderers. David Reider had been wise to take his mother’s name.
Kate elaborated. “David told Daisy everything . . . at least his father’s version of everything. So, of course, she panicked and left.”
Frances cursed her weakness, but sympathy welled up inside of her. Kate had lost her daughter. She could imagine the pain. “I’m sorry, Kate.”
“She’ll be better off.” Her tone was indifferent. “Did you see the noose on the front lawn?”
“Yes.”
Kate gave an acidic laugh. “The Clyde Hill community is pretty creative. Usually, when they find us, they set up Courtney Carey’s gravestone on our lawn.”
“Some things are hard to forgive.”
The perfect, patrician features twisted with anger. “I spent six fucking years behind bars, Frances. I served my time. I’m free.
” She motioned toward the shuttered window. “But those bastards want to ruin my life.”
“What about Courtney Carey’s life?” Frances asked. “What about her parents? Her friends? DJ?”
“I’m sorry she’s dead.” Kate’s voice was flat, her eyes blank, unreadable. “But Courtney Carey was never going to amount to anything. She was trash. If she had been raised properly, she never would have come with me that day. If she had been a good girl, she wouldn’t have gotten herself murdered.”
A chill ran through Frances, and she felt the blood drain from her face. “Courtney Carey didn’t get herself murdered.” Her voice was barely more than a whisper. “Shane Nelson murdered her. Shane Nelson . . . and you.”
It happened so quickly. Kate grabbed the newspaper-wrapped vase off the end table and held it over her head. She lunged at Frances, poised to bring the porcelain vessel smashing onto her cranium, cracking her skull, sending blood pouring into her face. Frances scuttled backward like a panicked crab, pressing herself against the wall, trembling with fear.
And then, Kate lowered the vase, and laughed. Cruel, mirthless laughter.
“You’re not my friend. You’re afraid of me.”
She was.
Kate’s pretty face was ugly with disdain. “I knew you were weak when I saw you standing there, all alone on the edge of the playground. You were such a victim. But Charles liked Marcus, so I befriended you. I should have known you’d be like all the rest of them,” she sneered. “You’re pathetic, Frances.”
DJ Carey was right. Kate was still Amber Kunik: narcissistic, remorseless, evil. She was still the sociopathic bitch who’d taken part in the murder of a young girl and accepted no responsibility for it. Frances had to get away. She moved to the door then paused, her hand on the knob.
“Maybe I am . . . weak and pathetic. But you’re a fucking psycho, Amber.”
Kate flinched, ever so slightly, at the verbal attack. At least the woman could feel something. Frances yanked open the door and left the Randolph home.