The Bad Sister

by Kevin O'Brien

  “Bitch and moan, bitch and moan,” Eden muttered.

  Hannah didn’t look up from her phone. She swiped back to Riley’s photo and studied it. She had a feeling he was lying to her, and maybe he’d been lying all along.

  Right now, she was pretty certain she would never meet him at all.

  If her stupid half-sister weren’t here, she would’ve burst into tears. She was so disappointed and miserable, she wanted to die.

  * * *

  From behind the wheel of an old minivan parked across the street from the train station, he watched them, the phone still in his hand.

  He’d been waiting and sweating inside the hot vehicle for over an hour now. Hannah hadn’t been on the last two trains.

  Actually, he’d been impatiently waiting for her for at least eight months. That was how long he’d been following every move Hannah O’Rourke made. She was all over the Internet—from the old news stories about what had happened to her family two years ago, to her own frequent posts on social media. He’d become utterly fascinated with her.

  After all their texts, the phone conversations, and the FaceTimes he’d carefully arranged, he felt he knew her better than anyone else.

  And now, at last, she was coming to him.

  But he wasn’t ready to meet her just yet. So he remained slumped in the driver’s seat with the car window rolled up—even in this oppressive heat. He just wanted to look at her.

  Even at this distance, he could see Hannah was as pretty as her photographs. The sister, Eden, was attractive, too—in a common, earthy way. She lacked Hannah’s elegance and style.

  He watched Hannah and her sister on the train platform with their large suitcases. It looked like they were arguing. From all the texts and conversations, he knew she didn’t get along at all with her half-sister.

  If Eden O’Rourke suddenly disappeared, Hannah might even be grateful, most grateful.

  He was all set up for it. He just had to wait for the right moment.

  Hannah was looking at her phone right now. He would wait and watch them until their ride came.

  He set Riley McCarren’s phone on the passenger seat.

  Right now, Riley was soaking in the old claw-foot tub in the second-floor bathroom of the house.

  Because of the heat, five bags of ice had been dumped into the tub with him—to keep his body from rotting and stinking to high heaven.

  At the 7-Eleven, the clerk who had rung up all the ice asked if he was having a party.

  “Sort of,” he’d told the guy with a cryptic smile.

  It was more like a funeral than a party.

  Riley would stay on ice for a while. It was supposed to rain later tonight. After that, the ground would be a lot softer, and it would be easier to dig a grave in the woods. The spot had already been picked out. The grave didn’t even have to be that deep, not if he chopped him up. The tub was the perfect place for it.

  Just three hours ago, Riley had been tied to a chair with a belt around his neck, crying and pleading for his life.

  He was such a handsome, clean-cut guy, it was hard not to like him. He kept saying that he wasn’t going to talk to anyone. I know I said that she was pretty and that I liked her, but that doesn’t mean I’d give you away. You—you can’t do this. I mean, you might need me again for another FaceTime session. What if she wants to video-chat again? C’mon, please, cut me a break, man. I’ve done everything you’ve asked. I don’t even need the money. You can have it back. I’ve cooperated. I don’t get why you’re doing this. You don’t have to ...

  He wouldn’t shut up. He kept begging and weeping and talking—right up until the old snakeskin belt around his neck choked the life out of him.

  Riley’s phone buzzed again.

  He grabbed it off the passenger seat. He knew it was Hannah. She was the only one who called this number. It was a text.

  Hope everything turns out OK with UR family. Also really hope 2 C U next week. Take care.

  He looked out the window at her—on the train platform. Smiling, he texted back:

  I’ll C U. U can count on it.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Thursday, 4:52 P.M.

  From the backseat of the air-conditioned Uber car, Hannah had gotten a good look at the town of Delmar and Our Lady of the Cove’s campus. The sleepy little town wasn’t as awful as her first impression of it. Delmar had a supermarket, a movie theater, and some decent-looking restaurants, but it wasn’t Seattle. The campus was actually kind of pretty with its trees and gardens, and a view of the lake.

  She and Eden asked the Uber driver to wait while they reported to the administration building, Emery Hall, where they were given freshman orientation packets and keys to their quarters: bungalow twenty, St. Agnes Village. Hannah suspected the squat, elderly woman at the reception desk in Emery Hall’s lobby was a nun. She wore a white blouse, a brown skirt, and what looked like orthopedic shoes. A crucifix dangled from a chain around her turkey neck. She cheerlessly informed them that the dorm cafeterias weren’t open yet, but the student union served food until nine, and the Grub Hub market attached to the student union carried some prepared meals to go. It was open until midnight.

  Back in the Uber vehicle, they continued down the campus’s main drag. Hannah noticed a turnoff ahead marked by a tall marble post at the edge of a garden. The words ST. AGNES VILLAGE were carved into the post, which looked like a tombstone. On top of the marker was a four-foot statue of a haloed girl, holding a lamb and a palm leaf. She was looking up at the heavens with a forlorn, pious expression on her face.

  Eden was checking her phone. “Says here that Saint Agnes was a virgin martyr, thirteen years old,” she announced. “She refused to give up her chastity, and so the Romans executed her by stabbing her in the throat.”

  “Swell,” Hannah sighed. “I’m just going to love it here, I can tell already.”

  “Didn’t you say something back at the train station about wanting to slit your throat?” Eden asked. “Well, you and Saint Agnes are like peas in a pod. And you’re both vir—”

  “Oh, shut up,” Hannah muttered.

  The Uber driver turned down the winding road, where a series of old, two-story, white stucco cottages were lined up close together on both sides of the street. Above every front door was a wooden crucifix—along with the bungalow number.

  Hannah hadn’t noticed many other students milling around the campus. But then, freshman orientation didn’t officially begin until tomorrow afternoon, and most of the regional and local freshmen probably wouldn’t be arriving until then. She doubted the tiny school attracted many students from either coast.

  “It’s bungalow twenty,” Hannah reminded the driver. She noticed the ground-floor windows on the sides of the cottages all had bars on them. The lawns in front were tiny and well-maintained. Hannah saw the even-numbered cabins on her right. They were approaching bungalow sixteen. “We’re coming up to it,” she said.

  But just after number sixteen, there was a slightly overgrown garden with a couple of Japanese maples, a bird bath, and another saintly statue. Hannah noticed the next bungalow down was number twenty. “Um, here we are,” she said. “This is us.”

  “What happened to eighteen?” Eden asked.

  Hannah was wondering the same thing.

  As the driver pulled up in front of the bungalow, Hannah saw the front door was open already—and so were the front windows. “That’s weird,” she murmured.

  “No shit,” Eden whispered.

  The driver popped the trunk. But Hannah didn’t want to get out of the car until she knew what was going on inside the bungalow. Eden didn’t move either.

  A young man stepped out of the cottage. He wore a blue-and-white-striped T-shirt and khaki cargo shorts. Hannah guessed he was no taller than her, but he had a lean, athletic build and a healthy tan. His dark brown hair was combed to the side and fell over his forehead. As he approached the car, he broke into a smile—and all at once, Hannah forgot about Riley. This guy w
as so damn cute. “Eden? Hannah?” he called.

  She could hear him on the other side of the Uber car’s closed window.

  He opened the car door, and the hot air rolled in. “I’m Rachel’s friend, Alden, at your service. I’ll get your bags. Go on in. You’re just in time for the smudging ceremony . . .”

  “Hi, I’m Hannah,” she said, stepping out of the car.

  “I know,” he replied. As he headed toward the trunk, he smiled briefly at Eden. “And you’re Eden, hi.” He started to hoist the suitcases out of the trunk. “Rachel and I stalked you guys online. You’re both even prettier in person. Or is it creepy of me to point that out?”

  “Borderline creepy,” Eden said.

  Hannah laughed. “It’s not creepy at all!”

  “Are these my little sisters?” someone called.

  Hannah turned toward the bungalow and saw Rachel Bonner in the doorway. She held a smoking sage stick over a bowl. “Welcome to bungalow twenty, girls!”

  For a second, Hannah thought, Oh my God, she’s bat-shit crazy.

  She was wearing an outfit right out of the 1960s—Capri pants with a splashy, flowered pattern and an orange sleeveless top. Her brunette hair, which had been shoulder-length and wavy in most of her online photos, had been sheared off. It was cut in a pixie style with short bangs. Rachel ducked back inside with her sage stick and bowl.

  Hannah and Eden each grabbed a suitcase and followed Alden as he carried the two other bags through the doorway. They stepped into a living room, impeccably furnished in mid-century modern style—like something out of a West Elm catalog. There was a huge framed poster from the Audrey Hepburn movie Sabrina practically taking up a whole wall. Frank Sinatra was singing “Let’s Get Away from It All” on the music system.

  The bungalow was like something out of the 1950s. But it was the glamorous 1950s. A big-screen TV in the corner of the room seemed out of place.

  The burning sage, along with the heat, made the place seem stuffy. A window fan stirred the smoke around a little, but didn’t cool down the room much. Chanting quietly, Rachel flitted around and used a feather to distribute the smoke from the sage stick. “Excuse me, roomies, but I can’t stop and break the spell,” she announced. “I’m almost done. Throw your stuff in your room, and get your butts right back here.”

  Her friend, Alden, led the way. “Your bedroom’s over here,” he said, heading for a door across from a kitchenette, where there was a sink, a microwave, a toaster oven, and a mini-fridge.

  Hannah paused and set down the suitcase by a portable bar. It separated the living room from the tiny kitchen area, which had a back door. On top of the bar were four crystal flutes and a silver bucket with champagne chilling. The bar and the matching stools were mid-century modern designs, too. Hannah turned to Alden. “When they said online that our dorm rooms were furnished, I really didn’t expect it to be this nice.”

  Chuckling, he plopped down the bags. “The furniture they give you is crap. All this stuff is Rachel’s. She even had someone repaint the place. She’s going through a retro phase right now—in case you didn’t catch on. Last year, it was bohemian shabby chic shit. I kind of miss the bean bag chairs. By the way, I hope you like Sinatra.”

  “And Ella Fitzgerald and Nat King Cole and Tony Bennett and Julie London,” Rachel said—still fluttering around the living room with her feather and sage stick. “If not, don’t bother unpacking!”

  Alden opened the bedroom door. “Give it a few months,” he whispered. “And she’ll be into new wave or rap or some such shit.”

  Hannah and Eden followed him into the shadowy, hot, claustrophobic bedroom. There was barely space for the three of them and the suitcases. Last week, from Seattle, they’d shipped two big boxes of bedding, posters, books, and things they couldn’t live without. Both parcels were now on the stripped twin beds, which seemed crammed into the tiny room—along with two desks that had built-in bookcases and a dresser that, obviously, they were supposed to share. All the furnishings were old, ugly, and slightly battered—not in the same league as the sleek, beautiful pieces in the living room. The one window was open and had bars on the outside. The view was of the garden next door. Hannah wondered how she and Eden would manage to cohabit in this tiny space without killing each other. Already, she found it hard to breathe. The room was like an oven and still smoky from the burnt sage.

  Alden set the suitcases on the bed. There wasn’t any space for them on the floor. “The boxes arrived yesterday,” he said. “I dumped them in here. Hope that’s okay.”

  “Do you live here, too?” Eden asked.

  “No, I’m at O’Leary Hall, the boys’ dorm,” he explained. He stepped over Hannah’s suitcase and pushed open the window more. “The smoke should dissipate soon. Not that I totally buy into this smudging shit, but if any spot in this dump needed it, this bedroom’s the place. The previous occupant, Rachel’s roommate last year, turned out to be a total pain in the ass, lots of personal problems. No one could stand her.”

  “Why?” Hannah asked.

  “Let’s not be unkind, Alden,” Rachel said, stopping by the doorway again. “Let’s just say it wasn’t a good fit!” She headed into the living room with her sage stick again.

  He rolled his eyes. “For one, she was a lazy slob, a total pig,” he whispered. “Rachel got sick of cleaning up after her all the time. Didn’t even flush the toilet. She was one of those ‘if it’s yellow, it’s mellow’ people. Anyway, Rachel’s right. I shouldn’t be mean. Let’s just say we were in here a while trying to smoke out her essence.”

  “Well, then I guess we should thank you,” Hannah said.

  “It wasn’t just the ex-roommate we were trying to smudge out.” He nodded toward the window—and the flower patch beyond the bars. “You’re next door to some heavy, bad vibes. There used to be a bungalow where that funky-looking garden is now. It was bungalow eighteen, but they tore it down and retired the number. No one wanted to live there. Hell, they couldn’t pay anyone to live there . . .”

  Hannah’s eyes widened. “Why? What happened?”

  “Somehow, I figured you might have known about it,” Alden said. “Back in 1970, they had a serial killer on the loose. He murdered a bunch of girls here on campus.”

  Hannah was dumbfounded.

  “No shit?” Eden murmured.

  “I shit you not,” Alden said. He glanced toward the window again. “The guy broke into bungalow eighteen, and he tied up the three girls who lived there. I really don’t know how he managed to do it. Maybe he made them tie up each other. Anyway, he had them all in the upstairs bedroom. He dragged one into the bathroom and killed her. Then while he took the second girl out and murdered her, the third girl managed to untie herself and escape. They called the guy the Immaculate Conception Killer. The girls he murdered that night were like his fifth and sixth victims. The police caught him a couple of days later . . .”

  “Afterward, no one wanted anything to do with the place,” Rachel said, stopping in the doorway again. She stubbed out the smoldering sage stick in a bowl. “So they tore it down and put in the flower garden and the statue of Saint Ursula. She’s another virgin martyr. I think they shot her with an arrow or beheaded her or something. You can’t throw a rock on campus without hitting a statue of a virgin martyr.”

  Frowning, she shook her head at her friend. “Alden, you stinker, I can’t believe you told them about the murders next door. You could have at least waited until they’d settled in a little. Now they’re going to have nightmares tonight, and it’ll be entirely your fault. Anyway, it was fifty years ago, and I’ve smudged the hell out of this place. So let’s not be morbid.” She turned and started toward the kitchenette. “A champagne toast is in order! Alden, get your cute butt in here and open the bottle for us!”

  He followed her out to the living room.

  In a stupor, Hannah just stood there. She’d read up on the university. How come she didn’t know about these murders from fifty years ago? She
looked out the window—at the overgrown garden next door.

  “Which bed do you want?” Eden asked. “Window or wall side?”

  “Wall, I guess,” Hannah said, thinking it might be less drafty in the winter—and a bit farther away from the heavy, bad vibes of bungalow eighteen. She dropped her purse on the wall-side bed and then stepped into the living room, where Tony Bennett and Lady Gaga were singing a duet on Rachel’s music system.

  Alden uncorked the champagne. Eden stepped out of the bedroom in time to join them by the bar for a toast. Rachel handed her a full glass.

  “Here’s to a marvelous year ahead,” Rachel said, raising her flute. “And here’s to my ‘little sisters’ who have traveled so far to be here. May this be the beginning of a beautiful, magical lifelong sisterhood!”

  “Hear! Hear!” Hannah said. She got a special little thrill clinking glasses with Alden. She couldn’t tell yet if he and Rachel were romantically involved. But she hoped they weren’t. With only twenty percent of the school’s student population being male, her chances of meeting another guy as cute as him were very slim.

  Eden downed her champagne in a couple of gulps. “Thanks a lot,” she said, setting her empty glass down on the bar. “Listen, I’m going to check out the campus. See you guys later.”

  Rachel looked flummoxed. “Have fun!” she called as Eden headed out the door. She waited until the door closed and then sipped her champagne and gave Hannah a baffled smile. “Was it something I said?”

  “Or was it me and my big mouth?” Alden asked.

  Hannah rolled her eyes. “No, that’s just her.”

  “The independent type,” Rachel offered.

  “No, just rude,” Hannah admitted. “I’m never sure with her. She’s my half-sister. We’ve been living under the same roof for two years, and I still don’t get her. Anyway, I’m sorry.”