Her Pretty Face Page 9

  Jason placed his mug in the sink. “I’m going to shower.”

  “Okay. I’m going to tackle some of this mess.”

  “Really?” Her husband looked mildly amused.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.” He kissed the top of her head then shuffled toward the stairs.

  Frances had just started sorting the stack of papers into piles—file, chuck, action required—when a text arrived from Kate.

  Hey early bird. Just having pancakes. Will bring Marcus home in 10 mins.

  Frances texted back:

  Thanks for having him. And for letting me stay over.

  The response came.

  No problem. The boys had a great time and Marcus has no idea you were here.

  Frances smiled, gratitude forming a lump in her throat. Jason had to have imagined Kate’s flirtation. Kate would never do that to Frances. Her spouse had gotten his signals crossed. They would both stay away from pot in the future. She typed:

  You’re the best!

  When the doorbell rang, twelve minutes later, it was Robert with a bubbly Marcus full of details of pancakes and video games and ghost stories. He was hyped up on gluten and glucose, but Frances didn’t mind. It was good to see her son happy, enjoying a normal rite of passage: the sleepover. The boy hurried inside, leaving his distinguished chauffeur and his mom lingering at the door. Frances was painfully aware of the slovenliness of both her appearance and her surroundings, as Robert loitered.

  “Thanks so much, Robert. For dinner and for having Marcus.”

  “Our pleasure. That was a fun night.”

  “Too bad I was asleep for half of it.”

  “Yeah.”

  “We’ll have you guys over soon,” Frances said, pushing the immersion blender box farther behind the sofa with her foot.

  “We’d like that,” Robert said, and he sounded genuine. Genuine, but not remotely flirtatious. Of course, the attorney would never be attracted to Frances in her current state. She was still in her rumpled clothes, with bed head and smudged makeup. But even at her best, Robert would not be interested. Why would he ever want Frances when he had Kate?

  “Have a nice day, Frances.”

  “You, too.” She watched him jog down the steps to his Audi.

  daisy

  NOW

  Daisy sat in math class, staring blankly at the whiteboard. The teacher, Ms. Watson, was taking them through exponents, and Daisy was absorbing exactly none of it. Her thoughts were fixed on the big, intimidating man who had bought her those vodka coolers. She couldn’t stop thinking about his penetrating gaze, his strong, masculine body, his slight limp as he walked across the parking lot. She couldn’t forget his loud, muscular car with the dent and scratches on the hood from the rock she’d thrown that night when he had sat there, inside it, watching her. Why had he been there? Who was he?

  When she had corroborated Liam Kenneway’s story, she had sealed her fate. By admitting to something so disgusting (seriously, the thought of licking any part of Liam’s anatomy, let alone his anus, was extremely distasteful), she had become persona non grata at Centennial High. Some would see it as a death sentence, but Daisy was trying to put a positive spin on it. She had set herself free. Free from the high school popularity treadmill, free from the hamster wheel of social jostling and positioning, free to explore new, more adult relationships. . . . If only she could find him.

  But that seemed impossible. She knew nothing about the man except a general description of his car—old, big, loud—and a partial license plate: 820 GK. . . . She’d had the presence of mind to remember it as he drove away, not that it helped any. A fourteen-year-old girl could hardly stroll into the DMV and ask them to “run the plates.” Daisy feared she would have to wait for him to find her again. She felt certain that he would—there was an intangible connection between them that went far beyond coincidence—but when? The waiting was torture.

  The bell rang, and Ms. Watson barked out some homework assignment that Daisy ignored. Gathering her books, she moved through the crowded hallway, enduring a handful of sniggers and an armload of averted eyes. At her locker, she grabbed her jacket and her backpack and slammed the door closed. She could no longer linger after school, making small talk, joking around. She was the joke now. Though she was reluctant to go home, it had become her refuge.

  The November sky was ominous, a capacious gray pillow stuffed with raindrops desperate to fall. A collapsible umbrella was nestled in the bottom of her backpack. Daisy paused outside the main doors, unzipped her bag, and dug for the compact tube. She wouldn’t make it home before the skies opened. But she stopped rummaging when she heard it: the familiar rumble of that big car starting up, the sound now seared into her memory. Looking toward the parking lot, she saw the vehicle. And through the windshield, she saw the man.

  For a moment, she wondered if it was a coincidence. He might be picking up a niece or nephew; he might be dating a teacher (God, no!). But she knew he was there for her. When she met his gaze, he grinned. It was slight, barely there, but it was enough. He had dimples, adorable but incongruous with his masculine face. As she walked toward him, she realized it was the first time she had seen him smile.

  Somehow, she maintained her composure, strolling across the lot. She wanted to run, to skip, a child hurtling toward Santa Claus. But she didn’t want to appear puerile. And she didn’t want to attract the attention of her schoolmates . . . although, what did she care? She was already Daisy, the ass-licker; may as well add Daisy, the girl who gets in a car with a strange guy who’s twice her age to her title.

  She opened the door and climbed in. Without a word, or even a look, the man backed the heavy car out of the parking spot and drove toward the street. Daisy sat, rigid, as the man waited for a break in after-school traffic, doting parents chauffeuring their teenagers to soccer or piano or home to pizza pockets and video games. When the car finally pulled onto the road, Daisy was pressed back in her seat by the surge of power from the massive engine.

  They traveled several blocks in silence before the man spoke. “I guess you failed a couple grades.”

  “What?” She glanced over at him, saw a glimmer of humor.

  “You’re twenty-one, but you’re still in high school.”

  Daisy felt her cheeks get hot. She stared straight ahead. “I’m eighteen,” she lied. “Twelfth grade.”

  In her periphery, she saw the man nod slowly. She couldn’t tell if he believed her.

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  “I’m giving you a lift home. It’s going to rain.”

  As if he controlled the skies, fat raindrops escaped their cloud enclosure and plopped down onto the windshield. He turned on the wipers.

  “Do you know where I live?” she asked, glancing over at him. She didn’t want to go home, not yet. She had waited so long to see him. She wanted him to take her somewhere, anywhere, just not home.

  “You live in Clyde Hill. I saw you walking that night.”

  “Yeah. On Twenty-Sixth Street.” She had to ask. “What were you doing there?”

  “Visiting a friend.”

  “Right.” Then how did you find me at the 7-Eleven? How did you know what school I attend? Have you been following me? Watching me? Who are you? But she wouldn’t interrogate him. She said nothing, just listened to the wiper blades slapping rhythmically against the windshield. Daisy wanted to look over at him, to examine him, imprint him on her brain, but she was too afraid.

  As he guided the powerful car up the 92nd Avenue hill, he said, “I’ll drop you off a block from home, so your parents don’t freak out.”

  “They don’t care.”

  “Really?” She felt his eyes on her. “Your parents don’t mind you getting a ride home with a stranger?”

  She looked at him then. “Nope.”

  “They don’t care about you?”

  “My mom doesn’t. My dad cares a bit.”

  “Poor little rich girl,” he teased.


  Daisy hated being mocked, loathed condescension. But she couldn’t get angry, couldn’t risk scaring him off. Still, she needed to respond, to clarify at least.

  “We’re not rich,” she said. “Like, we have a nice house and nice cars and stuff, but we never take fancy vacations. We don’t have a boat or anything. My mom doesn’t even work and my dad’s a consultant. I don’t even know if he makes any money anymore.”

  The man said nothing. He turned right onto 24th and charged down the wide street before hanging a left on 96th Avenue. When they were precisely a block from her home, he pulled over, but left the engine running.

  “Thanks for the ride,” Daisy said. She sat still in her seat, didn’t reach for the door handle. She wanted him to say something, to ask to see her again, ask her name, her number, anything . . . but he didn’t. When the silence became too awkward, too disheartening, she opened the door and got out of the car.

  “Want to get a drink sometime?” He had been toying with her.

  “I’m eighteen,” she retorted. “I can’t go to bars.”

  “We can have a drink at my place.”

  She had been playing with fire, and now she was about to go up in flames. “Okay,” she said.

  Pushing through the tremors in her voice, she gave the man her number.

  dj

  THEN

  Amber Kunik’s testimony went on for four days. The state’s attorney kept the pretty brunette on the stand, where, in her relaxed, measured voice, she told the court every vile act that she and Shane Nelson had performed on Courtney. Amber’s candid descriptions of the abuses heaped on DJ’s sister—the beatings, the sodomy, the degradation—made him want to vomit. His mother wept softly. His father sat silent and stoic, but he was withering, like Amber’s words were a cancer, eating him alive.

  At regular intervals, Neil Givens would ask Amber, “Why did you do that to her?”

  “Shane made me do it.”

  “I was afraid Shane would beat me.”

  “I had to make Shane happy.”

  Occasionally, Martin Bannerman would object to something the prosecutor said, but mostly he just listened. Shane Nelson continually leaned in to whisper in his attorney’s ear and scribbled copious notes for his pained representative. DJ wanted to know what they said. He strained his ears and eyes, but the defendant was too far away.

  On the fifth day, DJ and his parents woke at 7 a.m., got dressed, and prepared to go to court as usual. They were eating cereal when the phone rang. His mother answered. After a few moments, she hung up.

  “That was Detective Williams,” she said, her pale features twisted with concern. “She and Neil are coming over. They’ve got something to tell us.”

  “Aren’t we going to the trial?” DJ asked.

  “Recessed today.”

  His parents exchanged a look: worry, dread. DJ wasn’t sure why. The worst had already happened.

  Or had it?

  frances

  NOW

  On Sunday, Robert and Jason took the boys to a Seahawks game. At first, Frances had objected—it was too expensive, Marcus would be overstimulated—but both her husband and son were incredibly excited, and Robert had gotten some sort of deal on tickets through a colleague. (Frances privately wondered if there really was a connected colleague or if Robert was subsidizing the ticket price himself.) Ultimately, she didn’t have the heart to object.

  Kate was coming over today. They were going to put on the football game to see if they could spot the boys in the crowd, though Frances knew they’d be so engrossed in conversation that they could easily miss them. Frances had relegated Jason’s flirting suppositions to a dusty room in the back of her mind and closed the door on them. She’d seen Kate several times since the dinner party, and her friend had acted perfectly normal. If Kate had really come on to Frances’s husband, surely there would be some residual awkwardness? Even Jason agreed: he must have misread Kate’s behavior.

  Her companion was due any minute. Frances surveyed the state of her living room. She had made a significant dent in the clutter as of late, and had invested in some cheap but colorful throw pillows for the worn, beige sofa. An expensive bouquet (Frances knew a discount florist) perched on a side table, brightening the room with its out-of-season blossoms. The coffee table was laden with their football party snacks: a large bowl of tortilla chips, a seven-layer bean dip (made with low-fat everything—she hoped Kate couldn’t tell); a plate of buffalo wings (Frances would allow herself one); and a bowl of cheese-and-caramel popcorn, just for whimsy. It wasn’t as good as Kate’s pristine house or her magazine-worthy spread of food, but it would do. When the doorbell rang signaling her pal’s arrival, Frances hurried to answer it.

  “We’re making margaritas!” Kate said, as she swept into the room, bottles clinking together in the canvas tote she was carrying.

  “Sounds great,” Frances said, taking the bag from her guest. “I’ve got beer and wine, too.”

  Kate was removing her coat, but she stopped. “I hand-squeezed twenty limes. There will be no beer or wine.” Frances laughed, and led the way to the kitchen.

  Earlier that morning, Frances had hidden all her countertop appliances in the oven, leaving a clean, uncluttered space for bartending. Kate dug in the bag and removed a bottle of golden tequila, another of Cointreau, and a glass jar of bright green lime juice.

  “What a morning,” Kate said, as Frances grabbed ice, rocks glasses, and a box of salt. “I need a drink.”

  “What happened?”

  “I was vacuuming Charles’s bedroom and I accidentally sucked up his gerbil.”

  “Oh, no!”

  “I don’t know how the little bugger got out of its cage,” Kate said, rubbing a lime wedge around the rim of a glass. “I always tell Charles to keep the door latched.”

  Frances poured salt onto a saucer. “Was it okay?”

  “It was alive, but I think its back was broken.” Kate turned the glass upside down in the salt. “It was squeaking and wriggling, but it couldn’t stand up or walk.”

  “Oh god, what did you do?”

  “I finished him off and went and bought a new one.”

  Finished him off?

  “I put it in a plastic bag and smashed it on the pavement.” Kate clocked her friend’s horrified expression. “It was suffering, Frances. It was the humane thing to do.”

  Of course it was. But the thought of crushing that tiny creature on the driveway made Frances cringe. Despite what she had done, despite what she had witnessed, she was not inured to death.

  “Charles won’t notice,” Kate said, pouring a large shot of tequila into the glass. “This gerbil is actually Freddy the third.”

  With their cocktails in hand, the women moved to the sofa. Frances took a sip of her strong, tart beverage. It was delicious but potent. She flicked on the game (it had already started), and Kate dove into the snacks.

  “What are the odds that we’ll spot them in that huge crowd?” Frances asked, nibbling her allotted chicken wing.

  “Almost zero, since we’ll be too busy talking, drinking, and stuffing our faces.”

  “My thoughts exactly.” They clinked their glasses together and drank. “Marcus is still talking about the sleepover last week,” Frances said, setting her glass on the coffee table. “I think it’s the highlight of his life so far.”

  “Charles had a great time, too.” Kate scooped up some bean dip with a chip. “We should plan a family getaway. Rent a cabin somewhere.”

  “That would be fun.”

  “Or better yet, let’s leave the kids at home and have a couples-only vacation.”

  The door to the dusty back room in Frances’s mind creaked open. “Do you and Robert go on a lot of couples-only vacations?” She had intended a casual tone, but her question sounded pointed, even to her own ears.

  “We don’t,” Kate responded between crunches. “I just thought the four of us would have fun together.”

  “We would . . .” Frances
said, biting a chip.

  “But?”

  Kate could read her like a book; their connection was that strong. Frances swallowed. “I wasn’t going to say anything but . . . Jason got a weird vibe off you the other night at dinner. After I went to sleep in Daisy’s room.”

  “What kind of weird vibe?”

  Frances suddenly felt sheepish. “He thought you were flirting with him. That Robert was okay with it. That maybe you guys were . . . swingers.”

  An incredulous laugh erupted from her friend. “Oh my god!”

  “I know,” Frances said, her cheeks warm. “I told him he was mistaken. He doesn’t usually smoke pot. It messed with his perception.”

  “I’ll say.” Kate picked up a chicken wing. “Jason is an attractive guy, but I’d never come on to him.”

  “I knew you wouldn’t.”

  Kate daintily picked meat from the bone with her fingers. “If Robert and I were into that, I’d talk to you about it first.”

  “Of course. I knew Jason had misread the situation.”

  “If we ever were going to swap partners, it would definitely be with you guys.” Kate nibbled chicken as she talked. “I mean, we’re all attractive people. And our friendship is strong enough to endure any awkwardness.”

  Frances felt both flattered and uncomfortable. “I guess.”

  “Robert would probably love the idea,” Kate said, a twinkle in her eye. “He thinks you’re hot.”

  It was Frances’s turn for incredulous laughter. Robert Randolph had never given her any indication that he thought of her as anything more than his wife’s friend, or Marcus’s mother.

  “I’m serious.” Kate set her bare chicken bone on the edge of the plate. “He likes the voluptuous type. But he’s stuck with tall, gangly me.”

  “Poor Robert,” Frances quipped, “his wife looks like a supermodel.”

  “You always want what you don’t have,” Kate said, sipping her margarita. “I’m sure Robert would love to get his hands on those big tits of yours.”