NOW
Frances drove to Forrester Academy on autopilot, in a literal state of shock. What she had discovered about her friend made her sick to her stomach. An innocent but troubled young girl had been abducted, abused, tortured, and eventually (not soon enough) murdered. The account had jogged Frances’s memory. While no cameras had been allowed in the courtroom, there had been significant media coverage of the case. The country had been transfixed, fascinated by the good-looking young couple capable of such evil. Tabloid news shows like Hard Copy and A Current Affair featured stills of the comely pair at barbecues and birthday parties, on a motorcycle road trip, posed in front of the Grand Canyon. Frances remembered seeing footage of Shane Nelson, disturbingly attractive even in his prison jumpsuit: tall, rangy, intense. And, despite the horror playing out in her own life at that time, she remembered Amber Kunik.
The image was trapped in the recesses of her brain. Amber, demure in her conservative coat, being led through a phalanx of media to a waiting car. Flashbulbs had popped, reporters had called her name, like the girl was some sort of pop star or movie starlet. Frances recalled the way the burly police officer, or maybe he was a bailiff, had protected Amber’s pretty dark head as he helped her into the backseat. And Frances remembered the look. When the car door closed, Amber had peered through the window, chin slightly lowered, eyes penetrating the camera lens. The press had had a field day with that moment, playing and replaying it, over the course of the trial. It was that same, slightly flirtatious look Kate had given Frances at the seaside restaurant. Jesus Christ.
But that was twenty years ago, and she wasn’t sure her memory could be trusted. And could the media? The press could be biased, sensationalistic, salacious. She knew, firsthand, how tragedies could be twisted and spun for entertainment value. Amber Kunik had accepted a plea deal, and maintained that Nelson had abused and controlled her. But many had doubts, and the media had pounced on that angle.
Pulling into the parking lot, Frances squeezed her car into a vacant spot in the back row, farthest from the school. Kate always parked in the front row. Frances couldn’t risk running into her friend right now. The thought made her heart beat erratically and her stomach twist into knots. She’d left her iPad, mid-research, to come pick up her son. Now, as she sat in the school parking lot, she wondered if her brain was playing tricks on her.
Frances knew the toll of living with a terrible secret: the guilt, the self-loathing, the constant, nagging fear of being found out. . . . She knew how it manifested in her marriage, her relationships, and her parenting. Kate couldn’t be hiding a murderous past. Unlike Frances, Kate didn’t eat compulsively, didn’t question why her husband loved her, didn’t over-parent her children because she lived in unrelenting terror of them being taken from her. Kate was confident, well adjusted, normal. Unless she was a psychopath?
Marcus was crossing the playground now, his eyes searching for the familiar car. Normally, she would have gotten out and waved to him, but today, she stayed inside, inconspicuous. She couldn’t draw attention to herself. If Kate was in the vicinity, she would come over and say hi, she always did. Frances had loved that. It had made her feel special . . . but not anymore.
As her son moved closer, she noticed his small companion walking alongside him: Charles Randolph. Right . . . Frances had agreed to collect the boy because Kate was going to pick Robert up at the airport. (The women had filled out the requisite school forms allowing each access to the other’s son.) The distinguished attorney was returning from his father’s memorial service. Kate had not been welcome. Did Robert’s family know the truth about his wife? Were they horrified? Disgusted? Afraid?
“Hi, Mom.” Marcus crawled into the backseat.
“Hi, sweetheart.”
Charles climbed in beside him. “Hi, Frances.”
She answered through the lump in her throat. “Hi, honey.”
The boys chatted amiably about a lunchtime game of manhunt as she drove them home. They sounded so cheerful, so innocent. Frances’s heart ached for Charles. For Daisy, too. They couldn’t know their mother’s history. They were too young to comprehend her dark, cruel, ugly past. But it was only a matter of time before the truth came out, somehow. This David character knew Kate’s identity. Was he going to tell Daisy? Seek some sort of retribution?
If Kate Randolph really was Amber Kunik, if she really had gotten away with murder, why the hell had she had children?
When they arrived home, Frances prepared the boys a tray of nachos (Marcus’s mild lactose intolerance suddenly seemed insignificant) and let them occupy themselves. They’d end up on a screen in short order, but, that, too, seemed of less concern. She wanted the boys to enjoy their time together, blissful in their ignorance. Once all this came out, their friendship would be shattered.
Frances retrieved her iPad and resumed her research at the kitchen table. She clicked through the most recent articles:
KILLER KUNIK MARRIED TO HER LAWYER AND LIVING IN THE FLORIDA KEYS
Robert had been a lawyer. Amber’s lawyer.
THE SINS OF THE MOTHER: WHY AMBER KUNIK’S CHILDREN WILL PAY FOR HER CRIMES
Oh god, those poor kids.
Frances sifted through the photos of Kate’s past iteration—the shiny dark hair, the youthful face, the same gray eyes. One of the photos didn’t fit the melange. A girl with brown hair, the same big bangs, but a rounder face, softer features. Her makeup was too dark, too heavy, an attempt to look older, harder. Frances knew who she was, who she had to be, but she clicked the link anyway.
Courtney Carey. The victim.
The girl was fifteen years old when she was killed. How old was Daisy? Fourteen or fifteen. How could Kate look at her daughter and not see this murdered girl? Not think about what had been done to her? Perhaps that explained Kate’s seeming indifference toward her female child. She had emotionally detached herself from Daisy to block her memories of Courtney Carey.
Returning to the search page, Frances sifted through the more recent “sightings” of Amber Kunik. Her hair was now that expensive mix of caramel and honey, her face slimmer, her makeup muted and tasteful. Photographers had caught her hurrying to her car, buying groceries, peeking out from behind a curtained window. Amber had been a predator; now Kate was the prey.
Her head snapped up. It was Charles, Kate’s angelic son, standing at the end of the table. Instinctively, Frances pressed the iPad to her chest, shielding the boy from the words and images that would destroy him.
“Yes, Charles?”
“When will my mom and dad be here?”
“Around five-thirty,” Frances said, forcing a normal tone. “Are you okay? Do you need anything? Another snack?”
“No, thanks. I need to save room for dinner. It’s spaghetti night.” The boy smiled. “My mom makes the best spaghetti.” He wandered toward the living room, where Marcus, red-faced and sweaty from overstimulation, was playing a video game.
With the iPad clutched to her chest, Frances hurried upstairs to the master bathroom. She deposited the device in the linen cupboard, turned on the shower, and wept. Hot tears poured from her eyes and sobs shuddered through her chest, their sound masked by the pounding water droplets behind her. She was crying for Charles, for Daisy, and, though she was loath to admit it, for herself. Her self-pity was indulgent. The Randolph children, Courtney Carey and her family—they were the real victims. Still, Frances couldn’t deny the visceral sense of loss.
The doorbell rang. Shit. How long had she been locked away, weeping? She reached into the shower and turned off the water. Leaning over the sink, she splashed cold water on her face and hurriedly dried it on a towel. She rumbled down the stairs to find Charles opening the door. Kate, looking stylish, pretty, virtuous, stood in the entryway.
“Hey, buddy.” Kate bent down and hugged her son. As Frances approached, the tall woman righted herself and smiled. “Thanks for picking him up.”
“No problem.”
“Go get your school bag, Charles.” The boy obediently scurried away.
Frances peered past Kate to the SUV parked in the drive. Robert was behind the wheel, his eyes on his phone. Frances should ask how Robert was holding up, should ask how the funeral went. She should call Marcus to come say goodbye to his friend at the door. It was rude to stay glued to his game while a guest was leaving. But she couldn’t feign concern, couldn’t make idle chitchat, couldn’t worry about her son’s manners, or lack thereof. She was barely holding herself together.
“Are you okay?” Kate reached out and placed a hand on Frances’s cheek. Frances forced herself not to flinch. “You look pale.”
“I went to the gym,” Frances lied. “I think I overdid it. I’m a little light-headed.”
“You might have low blood sugar. Do you want me to make you something to eat?”
“I’m fine.”
“Robert can take Marcus home and I can walk home after. I don’t want to leave you alone if you’re not feeling well.”
Kate’s concern would have been touching, if only Frances could believe it.
“I’ll eat something. It’s okay.”
Charles returned then, his backpack slung over his arm. As he stepped into his shoes, Kate spoke to Frances. “Thanks again. I’ll pick up Marcus next week and he can come over for a playdate.”
“Yes!” Charles exclaimed.
No, Frances thought. But she held her tongue and forced an acquiescent smile.
As she watched Kate escort her son to the waiting vehicle, her heart clenched with emotion. The thought of losing the Randolphs’ friendship was almost too much to bear. And maybe she didn’t have to? Recidivism rates were much lower for women who committed crimes than for men—she’d gleaned that factoid from TV courtroom dramas. If she could forget what Kate had done in the past, they could still be friends.
But could Frances forget about Courtney Carey, the fifteen-year-old who had been raped and tortured and degraded? Who had suffered such indignities before she was murdered, her body dumped in the mountains like a bag of garbage? What did it say about Frances if she was able to continue this friendship, knowing what she knew?
But if she couldn’t, Frances was a hypocrite. Her own sister was dead because of her.
She closed the door and went back to the kitchen.