NOW
All weekend, Frances avoided Kate, citing a “bug.” She turned off her phone to dodge her pal’s concerned texts, her offers of soup or to take Marcus for the day. How could Kate be so caring to a friend with a virus, and so heartless and cruel to Courtney Carey? Frances told the same fib to her husband. Marcus had a soccer game on Sunday. Under normal circumstances, both his parents would have attended. But these were not normal circumstances. Frances had to feign illness to return to her research.
Opinion on the World Wide Web was that Amber Kunik had gotten off easy. Yes, she had been physically, mentally, and emotionally abused by Shane Nelson; there was ample evidence of that. She’d been lured into the relationship at the highly impressionable age of eighteen. Nelson was older, charismatic, already exhibiting signs of sadism and sexual deviancy. Amber would have been considered a victim . . . if not for those tapes.
Consensus by anyone who saw them (or read the transcripts) was that Amber Kunik had been a willing and enthusiastic participant in the atrocities committed against Courtney Carey. Amber’s were not the actions of a battered woman, playing along out of fear and self-preservation. She had relished the vile acts, instigated torture, suggested abuse. No one was that good an actress, sources said.
Shane Nelson’s claims that Amber had murdered the teenager were more contentious. His lawyer had argued that Nelson left the two girls alone, that it was Amber, not Shane, who had caved Courtney’s skull in. The jury didn’t buy it. It was too grasping, too desperate. But many in the online community believed the convicted man.
Frances couldn’t face the onslaught of information anymore. She needed to talk to someone, to discuss the facts, to verbalize the contentious thoughts swirling through her head. She couldn’t confide in her husband, not yet. Jason would jump to conclusions, he’d panic, he’d blow the whistle. And her spouse couldn’t offer the clarity she sought. Frances needed to connect with someone who’d been there, someone with firsthand knowledge of the case.
Her initial thought was the prosecutor, Neil Givens, but her research indicated that he had died several years earlier. Stomach cancer. Was it guilt over the deal he’d made with Amber that had caused the tumor in the attorney’s gut? Was it regret that turned his body against him, remorse that made his cells malignant? Had Amber Kunik effectively killed him, too?
She could easily speak to Amber’s lawyer. He lived a couple of blocks away, she even had his cell phone number. Robert Randolph had negotiated Amber Kunik’s plea deal, had kept her name off sex offender registries, had created a new persona for her. Obviously, he knew everything that Amber had done, and he had forgiven her. Perhaps Frances could, too? She knew that good people sometimes got caught up in bad situations. Young, impressionable women were regularly corrupted, manipulated, and led astray. But they could recover, go on to build a life, have a career, friends, a family. . . .
It never left them, though. What Frances had done to her sister haunted her. It disturbed her sleep, damaged her self-esteem, informed her every action. Kate Randolph was so confident, so light, so fun and free. . . . Perhaps she was blameless in Shane Nelson’s atrocities. Or, perhaps, she had no conscience.
That left Shane Nelson’s lawyer. A Google search indicated that he had moved to Palm Beach, Florida. Frances wondered when Martin Bannerman had relocated to the opposite side of the country and why. Was it simply a great place to retire? Or did he want to distance himself from the life he’d built in Arizona defending murderers?
The retired attorney sat on the board of a public art gallery. It took only a few clicks through the gallery’s site to find his contact information. The phone number stared back at her, tempting her, taunting her. Could she talk to this man who had vociferously argued that her friend Kate was a murderer? Could she accept the things he would tell her? But Bannerman’s job had been to defend his client. He didn’t necessarily believe Kate—Amber—was guilty. She was punching in the numbers when she heard Jason’s car pull into the driveway. She saved the digits, dropped the device, and moved to the door.
“How was the game?” It was a rhetorical question. Marcus’s glum countenance, his defeated posture, made it clear his team had lost.
“Terrible.” The boy stepped out of his muddy cleats. He was soaked. Soccer games went ahead, rain or shine. “I’m going to have a shower,” he grumbled, stalking from the room.
Jason hung up his jacket. “Four nothing for them,” he said, with a grimace.
“Poor guy. He takes losing so personally.”
“I suggested that Charles could come over. That seemed to cheer him up.”
“No,” Frances said, quickly. “Charles is sick.”
“Someone else then?”
They shared a look. Marcus had made significant social strides, but still . . . There was no one else. Charles was their son’s only friend; it didn’t need to be articulated.
“Let him play a video game,” Frances said. “I’m going to the gym.”
“I thought you weren’t feeling well.”
Jason gave her a bemused smile. “You never work out on Sundays.”
“I’m stepping up my regimen,” she said, grabbing her phone and her keys. “I’ll be back in an hour.”
She drove toward the gym, her heart thudding with anticipation—or dread. When she was a sufficient distance from her house, she pulled into the parking lot of a daycare center. It was vacant—the children were spending the weekend with their working parents. She pulled out her phone and dialed the number she had saved. The ringing was barely audible over the raindrops tapping on the car’s metal roof, and her pulse pounding in her ears.
“Hello?”
She forced a professional tone though her voice was tremulous. “Is this Martin Bannerman?”
“Yes?” The response was deep, masculine, wary.
“My name is Frances Metcalfe. I’m calling about Amber Kunik.”
“I have no comment.”
“I’m not a reporter,” she said quickly. “I’m her friend. I mean . . . I’m a friend of Kate Randolph’s. That’s the name she uses now. Our sons go to the same school. They’re best friends. Kate and I—Amber and I—are close.” She was rambling, but she couldn’t stop. “I just found out who Kate really is. I’m confused and afraid and I . . . I need to talk to someone who knew her.”
There was a long pause. Then:
“You’d be wise to stay away from that woman.”
“Amber’s changed, though. She’s a wife and a mom now. I’ve known her for a while. She’s kind and funny and caring.”
“She plays people. She charms them. That’s what sociopaths do.”
Sociopath. Frances thought about all the compliments Kate had given her, the support and commiseration. Was it all just a game? Was Frances just a toy? A pet to be dashed against the pavement when Kate grew tired of her?
“Do you . . .” Frances’s throat closed, but she forced the words out. “Do you think she’s still the same person who did those awful things?”
“Of course she is.”
“Is Kate—Amber—still dangerous?”
“Anyone who saw those videotapes knows that Amber Kunik is capable of unspeakable evil.” Bannerman’s masculine voice had become subdued; he sounded older, almost fragile. “What I saw . . . What she and Shane did to that girl . . . I think about it every goddamn day. Some nights, I can’t sleep.”
Frances could imagine what kept the man awake; the acts she had read about would be seared into the attorney’s brain. “But Amber was just a girl. Shane Nelson abused her. He manipulated her.”
“Shane Nelson is a piece of shit,” the attorney stated. “He’d been assaulting and raping women for years. But it wasn’t until he met Amber Kunik that a girl ended up dead.”
The words landed on her like snow sliding off a roof, sending a chill to her very bones. She tried to process the lawyer’s observation, but her brain refused to take it in. She couldn’t accept that Courtney Carey was dead because of Kate. It was too horrible, too surreal. But even as her mind denied the possibility, her body was reacting. She was trembling and sweating. She felt like she might be sick.
“Thanks for your time,” she managed.
“Be careful.” He hung up the phone.
Frances sat for a few minutes, letting her nervous system settle. She breathed deeply as the rain beat down, painting her windshield like an oily canvas. She should turn the key, drive to Curves, and perform her circuit. The exercise might offer some clarity, the endorphins might dissipate the mental fog that clung to her. But she didn’t have the energy. She felt weary, weak, beaten down. Jason would be confused by her prompt return, but she would tell him she’d had a relapse. She was too ill to work out. It wasn’t a lie. She was sick to her stomach.
She started the car and headed for home.