NOW
The Thanksgiving holiday brought a thaw in the Metcalfes’ marital relations. Over a substandard turkey dinner finished off with a greasy, store-bought pie, Frances and Jason put on a happy façade for their son. But when the meal was over, and Marcus had gone to bed, they cleaned up in tense silence. Finally, as Frances was hand-washing their wineglasses, she tentatively broached the subject they had been avoiding.
“Did you talk to Principal Stewart?”
“Yep,” Jason said curtly, dropping a plate into the dishwasher. “I told you I was going to.”
“He sent out an e-mail to all the Forrester parents.”
“I saw it.”
Frances placed a wineglass in the drying rack. “So what’s going to happen now?”
“I don’t know,” Jason said, his tone defensive, “but at least the administration can keep an eye on Kate. They can make sure she’s not alone with any kids, that she’s not a danger to anyone.”
She’s not dangerous. Not anymore.
But Frances didn’t say this out loud. The way her partner was roughly cramming bowls into the dishwasher told her that he would not be receptive.
“The power-mommies are curious,” she said, rinsing a glass. “There’ll be a witch hunt. Kate and Charles will be run out of the school.”
“It’s for the best.”
Frances turned off the faucet and faced her husband. “Really? You feel no pity for them? Not even for Charles?”
“Of course I feel sorry for Charles,” Jason said. “And Daisy, too. Amber Kunik should never have had kids.”
She hadn’t wanted children. It made sense now. It was Robert who had pressured her into it.
Jason continued, “But I don’t care what happens to Kate—to Amber. . . . I care about keeping the kids in this community safe. I care about Marcus, and I care about you. That’s it.”
His protectiveness warmed her. Frances had been a lesser wife than Jason deserved, but still he loved her. Even after she’d brought a child-killer into their cloistered universe, Jason remained loyal, loving, devoted. If she told her spouse that she had caused her own sister’s death, he would stand by her then, too. Probably . . . Now was not the time to test that theory.
His response was gruff but sincere. “I love you, too.”
The détente established, she spent the rest of the weekend concentrating on what she had, not what she had lost. It was Thanksgiving, a time to be grateful, and she was. For her husband. For her son. For the home they had built. Frances didn’t need girl talk over wine, gossipy coffee dates, a friend whose texts made her giggle, or an ally on the school grounds. She had lived her entire life without this kind of camaraderie, and she had been fine, content even. And she would be again . . . when the ache of loss had subsided.
Focusing on gratitude did nothing to quell the apprehension she felt as she drove her son to Forrester on Monday morning. Her hands on the wheel were clammy and her heart fluttered like a moth at a porch light. Her anxiety could be attributed to the fear of encountering her former friend, and fear for her. Frances knew how cruel the Forrester mothers could be over a harmless prank (okay, peeing in a water bottle may have been more like an inappropriate act of retribution than a harmless prank), but she could only imagine how they’d react when they found out Kate’s identity.
As she approached the school, she saw them: television vans; reporters with cameras, microphones, and recording devices. There were tripods and lights, cables and booms. Over the weekend, someone had identified the killer in their midst and alerted the media to her presence at Forrester Academy. Was it someone in the office? A teacher? An industrious parent? Now the press was waiting, salivating, for a glimpse of Amber Kunik. A security guard had materialized (he must have been hired when the school learned of the notorious murderer in its parent community), and the stocky man kept the press off school grounds. But they hovered on the periphery, milling on the sidewalk, chatting into phones or to one another, blocking a smooth entry for students and their concerned parents.
“What’s going on?” Her son craned his neck at the media scrum.
“I’m not sure,” Frances fibbed, pulling into the parking lot, “but I’m going to walk you in today.”
“I’m fine, Mom.”
“I’ll just walk you to the front doors,” she said, parking the vehicle. “I won’t go inside.”
Her son acquiesced and unbuckled his seat belt. “Is Charles back from Palm Springs?”
“I don’t know.” If Frances were in Kate’s shoes, she’d never return to Forrester. She’d homeschool her son, buy a cabin in the woods, and go into hiding. But Kate was tougher, braver, stronger. . . . How else could she have gone on living after what she’d done?
They crossed the parking lot and approached the throng. Gripping her son’s elbow, she led him through the phalanx of media people toward the school. No one turned in their direction, no one paid them any attention; all eyes were trained on the school’s front doors. Kate must be inside. Frances hadn’t noticed her SUV in the parking lot, but how else to explain the press’s laser-like focus on those front doors? Kate must have escorted Charles into class, and now she was trapped. If she came out, she’d be mobbed by reporters. But if she remained cloistered within the school’s walls, she’d be accosted by outraged Forrester parents. Frances would have taken on the media any day.
When they reached the bottom of the staircase that led to the double doors, she paused.
“Bye, Mom.” Marcus moved to ascend the stairs, but she held on to his backpack. Amber Kunik, notorious child-killer, was inside the building at this very moment. How could she send her only child into her lair?
“What are you doing?” her son grumbled, but she held fast to his bag. The boy needed to go to school, needed his routine. The letter from the Forrester administration had assured parents that their children would be safe, protected and cared for by teachers and support staff. And Frances knew, logically, that Kate wasn’t going to go on some child-killing rampage at her son’s private school, but still . . . she couldn’t let go.
At the top of the staircase, the school doors opened. Both Frances and Marcus looked up; the latter with mild curiosity, the former with abject terror. She couldn’t face Kate right now. Not in this public setting, with her son as witness, with cameras trained on them. Frances didn’t know how she’d respond to a face-off with her friend; she was torn between pity and loathing, compassion and fear. A confrontation would be messy.
But it was Jeanette Dumas and her mini-me, Abbey, who exited the doors first. They were trailed by Allison Moss and her daughter, Lila. Jeanette, always sharp in her business attire, met Frances’s anxious gaze as she descended the stairs.
“Have you heard?” she asked.
Frances nodded her response.
“We’re pulling the kids from school until Charles Randolph is expelled,” Jeanette informed her, as Allison and her charge joined them.
“What?” Marcus asked. “Why?”
Allison ignored the boy and addressed Frances. “Forrester was negligent when they allowed Charles to attend this school. They can’t take our money and place our children in this kind of danger. Will you take a stand with us?”
“What kind of danger?” Marcus queried.
Abbey Dumas looked at him, a glint in her eye. “Charles’s mom is a murderer.”
“No, she’s not!” the boy snapped.
“Yes, she is,” Lila Moss piped in. “Charles’s mom killed a fifteen-year-old girl.”
“Stop lying!” Marcus shrieked. Her son’s face was red, sweaty. He was going to lose it, Frances could sense it.
“We’re not lying,” Abbey sniped, and Frances had a sudden urge to pee in the kid’s water bottle herself. Instead, she turned to her son.
“It’s complicated, honey. I’ll explain later.”
“Complicated?” Allison said, eyes wide with shock. “You can’t make excuses for what Amber Kunik did to that girl.”
“O-of course not,” Frances stammered, “I just meant that Kate isn’t—”
Jeanette gasped. “Have you known who Kate really was all along?”
“Oh. My. God,” Allison said. “You knew, didn’t you?”
“No . . . I just found out.” But it sounded disingenuous.
“When?” Allison snapped. “Before the letter from the school?”
“A few days before.”
Jeanette shook her head. “We knew you were desperate for a friend, Frances, but not that desperate.”
Allison snorted. “You risked your son’s safety so you could have a BFF?”
“Marcus was never in danger!”
“You’re in denial,” Jeanette said, so righteous, so superior. “Kate’s a child-killer.”
“Mom”—Marcus was on the verge of tears now—“what’s going on?”
Jeanette reached out and patted Marcus’s shoulder. “You poor thing.”
Frances felt rage well up inside her, and the homicidal caprices she thought she’d suppressed made an appearance. In her mind, she slashed at the women with a machete, delivered a roundhouse karate kick to their jaws, bludgeoned them with a baseball bat. These imaginings, though twisted, were harmless. She had no weapons, she didn’t know karate (even if she had, her plump leg would never have reached towering Jeanette’s jaw), and she knew she would never, ever act on these impulses. What was truly dangerous was how much, in this moment, she wanted to defend her friend.
Kate may have done something terrible in the past, but she’s a kinder person than you are!
Amber Kunik was just a girl! She was under the spell of Shane Nelson! She’s served her time!
Kate’s changed! She’s not Amber Kunik, the child-killer, anymore! She’s my best friend!
But she couldn’t say any of it. It would be social suicide. For her and for her son. And she didn’t know if she truly believed the statements running through her mind or if they were just a product of her anger. She grabbed Marcus’s sleeve.
“Let’s go home.”
* * *
When they were locked in the car, Frances put the key in the ignition. She was vibrating with repressed emotions: rage, fear, sadness. . . . She wasn’t sure she was safe to drive, but she had to get out of there, had to remove her son from the chaos and strife.
“Mom . . . ?” She turned toward the quivering voice beside her, took in her child’s concerned face. “What were they talking about?”
Frances couldn’t hide the truth from him any longer. She took a deep, calming breath and reached for the boy’s hand. “I’m going to tell you everything, Marcus,” she said, clutching his clammy palm in both of hers. “It’s not going to be easy to hear, but you’re mature enough to handle it now. I’d like to wait until we get home, okay?”
Her son nodded his agreement and allowed her to peck his forehead. She was about to put the car into gear when she heard the mob of reporters erupt. Frances and Marcus peered through the windshield at Forrester Academy’s front doors, and saw Kate and Robert emerge.
As the pair descended the steps, the media pounced. The security guard hired to keep the horde off school grounds was no match for them, rats scurrying to feed off a carcass. Cameras flashed. Crews jostled for access. Reporters called out one name, over and over again.
“Amber!”
“Amber!”
“Amber!”
Robert’s arm was wrapped protectively around his wife’s shoulders, his other arm outstretched, pushing reporters away. Kate held her expensive purse up to her face, trying to shield it from the cameras, from the gawking, prying eyes of the press. The reporters were hungry for her, more like sharks than rats, a feeding frenzy. The security guard attempted to escort the couple (had the school hired him? Or had Robert?), his elbows up, hands shoving, blocking, body-checking.
The scrum was moving toward the parking lot now, toward the silver Audi that Robert drove. Frances hadn’t noticed it before, but she saw their destination now. The sleek car was parked in the row in front of her Subaru and to the left—closer to the school, for quick, easy access. Kate and Robert wouldn’t notice Frances and Marcus sitting in their car, watching them.
The group was nearing the vehicle. Robert released his wife so she could move to the passenger door. The security guard splayed his arms, an attempt to hold back the throng and allow his charge access. Kate scurried for the refuge of the Audi, her pricey bag obscuring her face as photographers and cameramen lunged for her. Frances’s tall, confident friend suddenly looked small and vulnerable, a victim. As Kate opened the car door she lowered her purse, and Frances saw her.
The flawless features were set in stone: hard, cold, brittle. Kate was outraged by this intrusion into her life, furious at the violation of her freedom. Was she shielding her face to protect her privacy, or to hide her unsympathetic fury? Frances knew how her friend’s annoyance would look to the general population: callous and self-centered. But Frances understood Kate like few others could. The hard line of her friend’s jaw, the flinty look in her gray eyes. . . . It was a mask, a protective scrim to keep her true feelings shielded. The pretty woman may have looked pissed, but Frances knew her better.
Kate Randolph was terrified.