NOW
Alone in her house, Frances sat at her kitchen table, staring at the photograph of a young Kate. It was a candid shot. Kate wasn’t looking at the camera, wasn’t smiling, wasn’t posing. She was walking—purposeful strides—wearing a dark blazer and a matching skirt. Had David taken the photo? If not, how did he get it? More important, what was he doing with Kate’s daughter? Frances sipped the strong cup of tea she’d made for herself, and turned the picture over. For the first time, she noticed the hand lettering on the back. A name.
AMBER KUNIK
Frances’s mouth went dry as she stared at the block letters printed in black ink. It was clearly a picture of Kate—younger, with darker hair and heavier makeup, but there was no denying it was her friend. But that name . . . Amber Kunik.Wasn’t she the woman involved in that sensational murder trial years ago? Amber had testified against her boyfriend, placing all the blame on him, but had ended up in jail herself for torturing that young girl. Wait. . . .
Frances grabbed her iPad from where it was resting on the stack of magazines and unopened mail and tapped her password into the device. Opening her browser, she was greeted by a couple of open tabs, recent Google searches:
Artificial colors and ADHD
Which has more calories? Sauvignon Blanc or Pinot Grigio?
With her hands shaking, she typed Amber Kunik into the search bar.
A barrage of images and articles, old and new, filled the page.
KILLER KUNIK GETS SWEET DEAL
KUNIK TESTIMONY PUTS NELSON AWAY FOR LIFE
CONVICTED KILLER KUNIK IS A SOCCER MOM IN MONTANA
A soccer mom? In Montana? Amber Kunik had her own Wikipedia page. Frances clicked, a vein in her temple throbbing as she read. The biography detailed the woman’s upbringing, her crime, her trial, prison stay, and subsequent release. Amber Kunik was a cold-blooded killer. A monster. She had made a plea deal and served only six years for killing a teenage girl. But videotaped evidence had revealed her to be an active, enthusiastic participant in the girl’s torture. Amber had, effectively, gotten away with murder.
Kate couldn’t be Amber Kunik. Kate was warm and kind and good. She was a wife, a mom, and a devoted friend. The best friend Frances had ever had. Maybe she had an evil twin? But this was not a soap opera. This was Frances’s life.
She sifted through the internet images of Amber, a pretty young woman with dark hair, fluffy bangs (stylish in 1997), a genuine smile. There she was laughing with a handsome, dark-haired man, beaming on Christmas morning, then glaring at the camera as she walked toward the courthouse. Frances peered at the face. It was Kate Randolph; there was no denying it. Despite the dark hair, the big bangs, the purple eyeliner . . . there could be no doubt.
Kate was not Kate. Kate was Amber Kunik—a murderer.
Frances felt dizzy and sick. She reached for her tea, but her hand would not close on the handle, didn’t have the strength to grip the mug. The iPad fell from her grasp, hitting the table, sloshing tea onto the wood. Frances watched the liquid meander across the surface, heading toward the stack of magazines and school forms to her left. She should grab a cloth and wipe it up, but she couldn’t move. She was paralyzed by shock, horror, and confusion.
Because it was not Kate who had the dark past, the shameful secrets, the horrific memories that gnawed at her conscience. That was Frances.
Frances was the killer.