Her Pretty Face

by Robyn Harding

  Outside, the media scrambled toward her, yelling their inquiries, shoving their cameras and microphones at her. “No comment,” she snapped, marching past them. She didn’t hide, she didn’t scurry. She held her head high.

  But when she was driving away, tears began to pour from her eyes, obscuring her vision. She pulled over; it wasn’t safe to continue. Collapsing onto the steering wheel, she let herself weep. The tears were pure shame. She’d been played. She’d been a fool. Kate had lured her in, just like she’d lured Courtney Carey in. But unlike that poor girl, Frances had survived.

  The sobs began to subside, and she blew her nose. As she dabbed at her tears, relief slowly seeped into her. She had invited a cold-blooded killer into her life, into her son’s life, her husband’s, and they had emerged, largely unscathed. Frances had stood up to the notorious murderer Amber Kunik, and she had come out of it stronger, braver, and with a newfound clarity on her own past. She was going to be okay.

  Frances pulled back onto the road and drove to the soccer field.

  daisy

  NOW

  Daisy strolled down Solano Avenue, savoring the spring sunshine on her face. She had been living in Berkeley for nearly eighteen months. Her aunt’s Spanish-style house at the foot of the Berkeley Hills was starting to feel like home. It was not a spacious residence, but Aunt Marnie and Uncle Paul had welcomed her. Her cousin, Christina, attended UCLA, so Daisy had been given her room. When the older girl came home to visit, she slept on the pull-out sofa in her dad’s study. Daisy had offered to vacate, but Christina always insisted she stay. Her cousin was kind and warm—like her parents, like her brother even, in his aloof, teenage way. But Daisy secretly wondered if Christina pitied her. Or perhaps was slightly afraid of her. Daisy’s mother was a psycho killer, after all. How could Daisy be normal?

  The shopping district was bustling with Saturday afternoon patrons going to lunch, coffee, spin class, the nail salon. Daisy pushed her way through the stream of shoppers, her pace quickening. She was running late. He wouldn’t mind, but she knew how busy he was. Daisy always looked forward to these monthly coffee dates. Initially, they had been emotional, the two of them connecting over shared heartbreak, tragedy, and betrayal. But as time went on, the tone of their meetings lightened, somewhat. And as always, Daisy had questions.

  Dr. Carey was sitting against the back wall of the homey coffee shop, sipping a cappuccino and reading a free newspaper. Daisy didn’t call him doctor—he was not her therapist—she called him DJ. DJ wanted her to talk to someone, a professional, and one day, she would. But for now, she had him. Their conversations, while not intentionally therapeutic, were always clarifying.

  He smiled and stood as she approached. “Hi, Daisy.” They shared a quick hug before he asked, “The usual?”

  “Yes, please.” She settled into her seat as DJ went to the counter to fetch her chai latte and raspberry scone. Daisy could have bought her own. She had money thanks to a part-time job at a falafel joint. But DJ had more money, obviously—he was a psychologist. And he enjoyed treating her, she could tell.

  When he returned, they sipped their hot beverages and covered the basics. Tenth grade was going well. Her aunt, uncle, and cousins were all fine. Yes, she still e-mailed with her father once a week. No, she hadn’t heard from her grandma Kunik lately, but her paternal grandmother visited frequently. Daisy asked after Glen, DJ’s husband, and their two French bulldogs, Slash and Axl. Slash had recently climbed onto the kitchen counter and eaten an entire pie, resulting in a disastrous case of diarrhea. Daisy laughed at the anecdote, but her tone soon turned serious.

  “I’ve been thinking a lot about my little brother.”

  “Are you worried about him?”

  “Yeah . . . Charles is twelve now. That’s when my mom turned against me.”

  “Sociopaths are incapable of feeling love like you or I would. But they can care for a child, as long as it serves them.”

  “That’s why I’m worried,” Daisy said, fingers warm on her mug of tea. “Charles won’t be as cute as he was. He won’t be as obedient. My mom will stop caring about him, just like she stopped caring about me.”

  “Has your dad mentioned this in his e-mails?”

  “No.” She sipped her tea. “But he never says anything about my mom.”

  “Charles might not fall out of your mom’s good graces like you did.”

  The comment stung. Daisy’s mother was a sociopath, she understood that. But could Kate Randolph turn her personality disorder on and off like a light switch? Select one child to bear the brunt of her inability to love, feel, and connect?

  DJ sensed her pain. “Sociopaths can make relationships work when they need them to. Like with your parents.”

  Daisy’s look begged elaboration.

  “Your mom needs your dad. She relies on him financially. She needs him to ensure her safety and security. That relationship is important to her, so your mom puts a lot of effort into it. She acts like the perfect wife to make sure your dad stays with her.”

  It made sense. Daisy had often wondered how her parents’ relationship managed to thrive.

  “If your mom loses Charles, she won’t be a mother anymore. That label might be important to her.”

  “So, she’ll keep playing the loving mom and Charles will be okay?”

  DJ gave a slight nod as he sipped his frothy coffee. “There’s another possibility. . . .” He trailed off.

  “What?” When they first connected, DJ had promised to be honest with her, to answer all her questions, no matter how much they might hurt.

  The psychologist set his cup down. “Sociopathy is a complicated mix of nature and nurture.”

  Daisy’s mind was quick and she did the math. “Are you saying Charles could turn out to be a psycho like my mom?”

  “No.” He gave her hand a reassuring pat. “That’s extremely unlikely. I’m just saying that Charles might understand your mother in a way that you can’t.”

  Could her brother’s sweet nature be an act? Could his cheerful compliance be a coping mechanism? Was he an empty shell of a person, just like their mother was? Daisy broke off a piece of scone and put it in her mouth. It tasted liked sawdust.

  “Ask your dad how your brother’s doing . . . or write to Charles directly. That connection would be good for both of you.”

  Daisy swallowed the dry pastry and nodded. She would try to save her brother . . . if he needed saving.

  DJ had to go. He had a long drive back to Noe Valley, and Glen wanted him to pick up wine for the dinner party they were hosting that evening. They hugged goodbye on the sidewalk.

  “You call me if you need anything,” DJ said. “Or if you just want to talk.”

  “ ’Kay. . . . Say hi to Glen and the pups.”

  “I will.” He gave her a paternal smile. “I’m proud of you, Daisy. You’ve come through a lot, and you’re thriving. And the fact that you’re worrying about your little brother shows me what a kind, caring person you are.”

  She wanted to respond. She wanted to thank him for being in her life, for understanding that she was not her mother, for teaching her that she deserved to be loved. But the lump in her throat blocked her words and tears pricked her eyes. She pressed her lips together and nodded.

  Walking home, her feet felt heavy, weighted down. Talking to DJ often summoned complex emotions that left her feeling exhausted. Still, she was grateful for the sounding board. She could talk to DJ about her thoughts and feelings, she could ask him difficult and sensitive questions. There was only one subject DJ Carey refused to touch.

  David Reider.

  Daisy still thought about him. A lot. She didn’t pine for his attentions, like she once had. Now that she lived in a stable home where she felt loved and cared for, she no longer craved the man’s attentions. But still, David stayed with her, floating through her mind, appearing in her dreams.

  She had mentioned David to the psychologist only once, and he’d told her, in no uncerta
in terms, that she could not have a friendship with him.

  “David Reider is a man. You’re a teenager. It’s inappropriate.”

  “You’re a man,” she’d sniped. “I have a friendship with you.”

  “That’s different,” DJ said. “Reider crossed a lot of lines. He stalked you. He invited you to his apartment. He gave you alcohol and drugs when you were fourteen years old.”

  It was all true. But it could have been so much worse.

  DJ, Frances Metcalfe, Daisy’s aunt and grandmother all viewed David as a villain. They didn’t know how he had rescued Daisy after Dylan’s party; how he had rejected her advances when she crawled into his bed; how he had held her and let her cry on his chest. They didn’t trust him. But Daisy did. Because David had done for Daisy what Shane Nelson had not done for Courtney Carey. He had saved her life.

  And she and David shared a connection few could understand. Only the child of a killer could appreciate the issues with which he grappled, the endless questions, the relentless self-doubt. David would wonder if evil could be inherited, if he could ever atone for his father’s sins, if he deserved to be happy. David would hope that, one day, he’d find someone who understood him. But he already had. That person was Daisy.

  She had looked for him online, but the man had no social media accounts. He wasn’t mentioned in any articles, wasn’t listed as an employee or a member of a club. Years ago, his mother had taught him to hide, and he was good at it. But Daisy knew they would reconnect. In two years, she would be eighteen, legally an adult. Then she could be friends with whomever she wanted.

  David had found her once. He would find her again. She knew it.

  frances

  NOW

  “How much longer?” Marcus asked from the backseat. He wasn’t whining or complaining; simply curious. This was a road trip they had not taken before.

  Jason answered from behind the wheel. “About half an hour.”

  “ ’Kay.”

  Frances looked over her shoulder and watched her son insert his earbuds again. He would be thirteen soon. He was five-foot-nine, skinny and gangly, with solid, pronounced joints that foreshadowed the big man he would become.

  “What are you listening to?” she asked.

  “A podcast about World War One.”

  “It’s not violent, is it?” Frances’s brow furrowed with concern.

  “War is violent, Mom. But it’s important to learn about it.”

  Jason glanced over at her. “Our twelve-year-old is listening to a history podcast, Frances. That’s a good thing.”

  She faced forward, a small smile on her face. Marcus had recently taken an interest in world history, reading books, watching movies, and listening to podcasts about ancient Rome, the Vikings, and now, the great wars. He was almost finished with seventh grade; his curiosity would serve him well as he entered his final year of middle school.

  They would endure one more year at Forrester Academy; Marcus had already chosen a public high school with a project-based learning model that would suit his passionate interests. While privately Frances was relieved, she had let her son choose this path himself. If he had wanted to stay at Forrester, she would have supported him. And it would have been okay. In fact, the past year at the private school had been surprisingly tolerable.

  Marcus had two friends now, both acquired during his Viking phase. The boys had bonded over their shared fascination with the ancient Scandinavian warriors, creating elaborate games of strategy using pine cones, painted rocks, and plastic figurines. While Marcus had not forgotten his old pal, Charles was mentioned less often now. Her son’s questions, his requests to contact the Randolph boy, had slowed to a trickle. He was moving on. He was going to be fine.

  Frances was moving on, too. After several months as a Forrester pariah, she’d made a new friend. Andrea was a dentist whose daughter was a year younger than Marcus. The women had met volunteering at a fund-raising car wash (the school needed extra money to install a state-of-the-art photo lab, or heated toilet seats, or some other luxury). Andrea was warm and funny. She worked three days a week, so Frances didn’t see her often. Theirs was a normal, pleasant friendship. It wasn’t intense or overly close, but it was enough.

  After Kate—Amber—left, Frances had looked for her online daily. These Google searches were partly out of curiosity, partly out of fear. They had dwindled now, to once every few months. The Randolphs’ new locale was still unknown, and Frances hoped it would stay that way. Despite her friend’s past deeds, despite her personal betrayal, she wanted Kate to live a life of anonymity. For Charles’s sake. And for Daisy, creating a new life in Berkeley.

  Kate still haunted her thoughts, popped up in her dreams: some terrifying, some disturbingly intimate, some perfectly benign. It wasn’t easy to let go . . . especially since the text.

  I miss you

  It was from an unknown number, but it had to be her. Who else? Frances had looked up the area code: Louisiana. Kate had waited until Frances had almost put her out of her mind, and then she had reached out. She wanted to draw her back in, to play with her, toy with her like the sick sociopath she was. Unless . . . she was sincere? Maybe she really did miss Frances? Maybe their friendship had been real? Frances would never know, because she would never respond. She couldn’t.

  She shifted in her seat and gazed out the passenger window. The scenery was becoming familiar now, a sense of nostalgia seeping into her being. She had been content here, once, before everything turned dark and ugly. Her return was bittersweet; both happy and sad. But she had needed to come. She was strong enough, healed enough. It was time.

  Her husband’s voice cut into her reverie. “How are you doing?”

  “I’m okay,” she said, smiling at his concern. “A little nervous, but excited.”

  “It’s been a long time.”

  “Almost five years.”

  “I guess Marcus has changed a bit then.”

  Frances laughed. Her parents’ last trip to Bellevue had been filled with tension and secrets, but this visit would be different. Jason knew everything now. How Tricia had died, the role Frances had played in her death, how she had blamed and hated herself for years.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” he’d asked, when she finally confessed. “You didn’t have to carry this burden alone.”

  She would have carried it forever, if not for Kate.

  With her husband’s support, she wrote to her family. In a long, heartfelt e-mail, she told them all about her friendship with Amber Kunik. It had been frightening, disturbing, and confounding, but, ultimately, it had allowed Frances to forgive herself for Tricia’s death. She hoped her family would be able to forgive her, too.

  Her mother had responded almost instantly:

  Of course, we forgive you. Tricia would want us to be a family.

  So, the reunion had been planned. Mary Anne and her partner were flying in from Texas. Frances had not been to Spokane in years, and she knew her return would be emotional. The family would visit Tricia’s grave together. They would cry and grieve and heal, and then, they would work on rebuilding their family. Marcus was excited to get to know his aunt and uncle and his grandparents. They would all have to get to know one another again.

  Frances’s phone, deep inside her purse, vibrated at her feet, announcing a text. She had been communicating with a creative-writing professor, inquiring about a workshop he was holding. She was eager to hear back from him. Frances had long been interested in writing as an outlet, and she had some stories to tell. Extracting her phone, she looked at the display.

  Please forgive me. I can’t stop thinking about you.

  The area code was 504. Louisiana.

  Frances should have responded: Leave me alone, Kate. I don’t miss you. I don’t think about you. She should have blocked the number. But for some unexplained reason, she didn’t. Perhaps she was enjoying leading Kate on, just a little bit?

  Her husband glanced over at her. “Anything important?”<
br />
  “Nope.” She smiled at him as she deleted the text. “It’s nothing.”

  The exit for Spokane loomed ahead of them. Jason said, “You ready?”

  “I’m ready.”

  Frances was going home.

  acknowledgments

  There are so many people involved in birthing a book and shepherding it through its life. I owe them all a heartfelt thank-you, starting with my genius editor, Jackie Cantor. She was instrumental in shaping this story into the book it has become. Thanks to my formidable (in a good way) publisher Jennifer Bergstrom, publicist extraordinaire Meagan Harris, and everyone at Gallery Books/Scout Press: Sara Quaranta, Jennifer Long, Liz Psaltis, Diana Velasquez, all the salespeople, designers, and everyone behind the scenes.

  A huge thank-you to Simon and Schuster Canada: Nita Pronovost, Felicia Quon, Adria Iwasutiak, Rita Silva, Sarah St. Pierre, Catherine Whiteside, Rebecca Snodden, and the rest of the team . . . Your expertise and support are hugely appreciated. (And you are all so fun to hang out with!) And thank you to Simon and Schuster Australia (Kirsty Noffke and Co.) and Simon and Schuster UK.

  To my incredible agent, Joseph Veltre, and the invaluable Hannah Vaughn. My film team, Matt Bass and Bob Hohman. Thanks for sticking with me and cheering me on.

  Thanks to Crystal Patriarche and the BookSparks team. Your passion, expertise, and enthusiasm are so appreciated.

  To my early readers, the brilliant Eileen Cook and Cindy Bokma: thanks for your insight and encouragement.

  To all the librarians, booksellers, bloggers, bookstagrammers, and Facebook groups who devote so much time and energy to spreading the word about books: as a writer and as a reader, I thank you!

  To my community: friends, relatives (Aussies and Canadians), neighbors, former colleagues and classmates, my kids’ friends’ parents . . . Your ongoing support means so much to me.

  Thanks to my very first (and always most positive) reader, my husband, John; my biggest fan, my mom; and my kids, who keep everything in perspective. Love and gratitude.