“Well, I’m sorry. But I feel like you’re exploiting Eden and me for some big news story,” she admitted.
“Hannah, I’m trying to help you guys,” she said. “This story could save Eden’s life. More people will be looking for her after the newspaper comes out tomorrow. Don’t you see? The police will start working on the case in earnest. Even if I’m wrong and Eden has run away—well, if she reads this article, she’ll probably call you or your parents. Either way, this article might help reunite you with Eden . . .”
Hannah remained silent.
“Hannah, what’s wrong?” Ellie asked. “Why are you acting like this? I have a feeling Rachel has been bad-mouthing me to you again. Honey, you need to be careful with her. I’ve heard some things about Rachel Bonner . . .”
“So now you’re going to pick on Rachel?” Hannah asked indignantly.
“I’m just saying you should proceed with caution there and not believe everything Rachel tells you. I won’t go into it now with you, because I don’t have time. But please, listen to me. We’ve always been honest with each other—”
“Really? Were you being honest when you warned me not to trust Nick Jensen?”
“I’ve told you, I was wrong about him.”
“Well, you sure changed your mind about him in an awful hurry.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I came by your place around six last night, and I saw him knocking at your door. He had an overnight bag with him. You kissed him and took him inside—like he was your boyfriend or something. This is the same creep who threatened Alden just last week.”
“Like I said, I was wrong about him,” Ellie explained, sounding a bit impatient. “And he didn’t mean what he said to Alden. He was just upset that we’d wasted his time with the bogus massage appointment. That’s my fault, I admit it. I’ve already explained all this—”
“How come he was following me—after class and at the pool? He was following Eden around, too. Do you really think he just ‘ran into’ her at the Sunnyside Up? Has he been working with you? Did he spend the night with you last night?”
“No!” Ellie cried. “God, this is all just a big misunderstanding. He hasn’t been working with me. He’s not my boyfriend. And he didn’t spend the night. That was a gym bag he had with him. I invited him over for dinner because I felt bad about misjudging him. I’d been pretty rude to him. I wanted to apologize. He—he’s actually a very nice person . . .”
Hannah heard her sigh on the other end. “You’ll just have to trust me about this, Hannah. Now, I’m getting close to downtown, and the traffic is pretty nuts. I can’t hang on the line. For the newspaper story, I really need that statement from you or your parents about Eden’s disappearance. If you can’t think of anything to say right now, can you call me back in an hour or have your parents call me?”
“Sure, one of us will call you back, I guess,” Hannah mumbled. The washer finished the spin cycle, and she got to her feet.
“Thank you,” Ellie said. “Like I said, this article is going to help people. It’ll be out tomorrow morning—in time to alert everyone on campus. You know, tomorrow’s the anniversary of the double homicide.”
“I know,” Hannah said, standing beside the washer. “I live right next door to where it happened, remember?”
“My God, that’s right. Are you going to be okay? Maybe you shouldn’t stay there tomorrow night . . .”
Ellie actually sounded concerned. Maybe she really cared.
“I’ll be okay,” Hannah sighed. “Listen, you have traffic, and I have a couple of loads to take out of the wash. I don’t have anything to say for your newspaper story right now. But maybe I’ll text you in an hour or so if my parents don’t. Bye.”
Hannah hung up before Ellie got another word out.
Thursday, 7:51 P.M.
“Anyway, I tried my best at damage control,” Ellie whispered on the other end of the line. “But after what she saw last night, Hannah is convinced the two of us are up to something. And of course, I couldn’t tell her who you really are, so naturally, she’s suspicious . . .”
“It sounds like you handled it the best anyone could,” Nate said, sitting at his kitchen counter-bar.
They’d talked and texted several times since his noon meeting with Ms. Houghton today. They’d both had major breakthroughs.
But Nate felt frustrated. After learning so much from the Bonners’ longtime housekeeper, he wasn’t sure what to do with the information. Sloane and company had made it impossible to track down any of the leads online.
Nate had already read everything he could about Dylan O’Rourke and the mysterious death of his sister-in-law, Molly Driscoll. He wondered how much Marcia Lindahl had told his brother. If Gil had known that Molly Driscoll was murdered trying to extort money from the Bonners, how in the world could he be foolish enough to turn around and attempt the same thing? Of course, sometimes Gil thought he was invincible. But he should have known the Bonners wouldn’t hesitate to have him murdered, too.
Nate had all this information. But it was just hearsay. For him, nothing had really changed. He still felt like a fugitive. He was still hiding. It was as if his hands were tied.
And he still had no idea about Rachel’s older, married lover. Had Gil known?
Meanwhile, Ellie was taking action. She was running all over the city, making calls, interviewing people, digging up facts—and getting ready to go public with her story. Nate was happy for her. But he couldn’t help feeling a bit envious.
As busy as she was, Ellie had still offered to discreetly ask some of her reporter friends what they knew about Donald Sloane or Marcia Lindahl. For that, Nate was grateful.
He figured she wouldn’t want to spend tonight alone at her place. So in an earlier text, he’d invited her to stay at his place tonight. Ellie had texted back, saying it sounded like a wonderful idea.
He’d gone out and bought some of the same snacks he’d noticed in her cupboard—along with two nice bottles of wine, and food for breakfast in the morning. For dinner tonight, he figured they’d stay in and order out.
Nate hadn’t expected her before eight o’clock, because she had a seven-thirty deadline for her story. He wasn’t really surprised when she’d phoned five minutes ago and said she was still at the Tribune Tower. He’d just finished straightening up his place—and had even lit some candles set out on the counter-bar in front of him.
“Anyway, Hannah seems to think I’m exploiting her,” Ellie said. “I’m almost positive Rachel has been getting her digs in about me. I tried to warn Hannah about her. There wasn’t enough time to tell her any of the things Vivien shared with you about Richard Bonner’s precious little girl . . .”
“Well, you need to sit down and talk with her about it, Ellie,” Nate said. “Tell her about the pony—and the little girlfriend. That ought to scare the shit out of her.”
“I will, I promise. Meanwhile, I’d asked her for a quote to use in the story. And all I got was a text from her father, ‘speaking for the family’: ‘We’re doing all we can to find Eden, and we continue to hope and pray for her safe return and blah, blah, blah.’ They didn’t say squat about why they waited nearly two weeks before finally putting a private detective on the case. I don’t know. Maybe they don’t care how bad that looks. They don’t seem to realize I’m trying to help them. But I did get better quotes from Diana’s and Justine’s parents, heartbreaking stuff. I swear, Nate, I was crying when I took down what they said. These poor families. And Pamela Rothschild’s son said something that was practically poetic about his mother. It really makes you feel the loss and the pain—the tragedy behind the whole thing. Such a waste . . .”
She let out a long sigh. “Oh, and speaking of quotes, Father O’Hurley of Our Lady of the Cove isn’t available for comment. Big surprise there. He suddenly had to rush to the bedside of a conveniently sick relative. So it was left up to a vice principal of the school to give some generic remark about the universit
y doing everything it can to ensure the safety of its students. It’s hardly worth the cost of the ink to print it. And of course, he had nothing to say about my firing.”
“Well, you were more than fair,” Nate said. “You gave them a chance to explain, and they blew it. Anyway, you’re all finished? You made your deadline?”
“Whew, yes, I still can’t believe we got it done in time.”
“And you feel good about it?”
“Yeah, in fact, I feel great. I didn’t realize how much I’d missed this, and everything about it—the excitement and the intensity. Of course, I had a big, personal stake in this story. A part of me feels conflicted, because I’m so keyed up about this. But people are dead, and Eden is still missing. I keep thinking maybe Hannah’s right. Maybe I am exploiting her.”
“Well, if you are, you’re also helping all these people,” Nate reminded her. “Anyway, when can I expect you?”
“Oh God,” she groaned. “Yeah, about that, Garth and I have a mountain of stuff here for a follow-up story for Saturday’s edition. So we decided to just break for a quick dinner and get back to work. I’m probably going to crash on Garth and his wife’s couch tonight. They have an apartment here in the city. I’m sorry. I hope you didn’t go to any trouble for me.”
“No, not at all,” Nate said. “Don’t worry about it. You’re busy. Sounds like you’re going to be busy all day tomorrow, too.”
“Pretty much,” Ellie said. “But I haven’t forgotten about Donald Sloane or Marcia Lindahl. I doubt I’ll get a chance to see you, but let’s talk, okay?”
“Definitely. And congratulations on getting the job done.”
“Thanks, Nate. Thanks for everything.”
“Good night,” he said.
Nate hung up and set the phone on the counter. Getting up from the barstool, he glanced around his dingy, barely furnished apartment. He blew out the candles on the counter.
Then he went to the refrigerator and took a small Trader Joe’s pizza out of the freezer.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Friday, September 25, 2:40 P.M.
“Eden has been missing for two weeks,” the reporter said into her handheld mic. She had a stiff-looking helmet of blond hair and wore a red suit. “Yet the police and the school weren’t contacted until only a few days ago. Can you explain why that is, Hannah?”
She told herself to stay composed and keep the polite half-smile on her face. Hannah remembered two years ago, someone online criticizing her because she’d smiled too much during a TV interview after the thing that happened to her family. In yet another interview, some classmate had twittered that she looked tired and pissed off. So Hannah had found a polite, halfhearted smile was best in crisis situations like this. A few reporters had tried to get her to cry during some of the impromptu mini-interviews today, asking if she missed her sister, and if she thought she’d ever see Eden again. But Hannah managed to keep it together. She figured Eden wouldn’t stop throwing up or mocking her if she cried over her in a TV interview.
They were shooting in front of the library, the most impressive building on the campus. Hannah had refused to be interviewed in front of her bungalow, because she didn’t want people figuring out where she lived. She wouldn’t be filmed in front of St. Ursula’s chrysanthemum garden either, because that was too close to her bungalow—and just plain morbid.
The copycat-murders story had broken in this morning’s Chicago Tribune, as Ellie had told her it would. Hannah had awoken at eight o’clock to her phone ringing and a clamor outside her bedroom window. TV news vans were parked in front of the chrysanthemum garden next door. From the living room window, she and Rachel could see the bouquets, candles, pinwheels, and even a couple of anchored helium balloons that people had placed on the sidewalk in front of the garden. Someone had also left cheaply framed photos of the double-homicide victims, April Hunnicutt and Debbie Metzger, as part of the makeshift shrine. All this—and classes hadn’t even started yet.
It was surreal to switch on the TV and see the garden next door on the morning news. Still in their pajamas, she and Rachel sat on the sofa and watched Ellie being interviewed about the copycat killings—on at least three stations. Rachel kept switching channels with the remote and groaning whenever Ellie came on.
In one interview, Ellie talked about Connie Woolrich, the pretty brunette who had escaped from bungalow eighteen that night fifty years ago, and then went on to identify Lyle Duncan Wheeler as the killer of her two roommates. Now sixty-nine, Connie Woolrich was living somewhere in Minnesota under her married name, enjoying her anonymity and not granting interviews.
The Today Show coverage included a montage of candid family photos of the five students and the teacher murdered back in 1970, black-and-white shots and washed-out color pictures that made the victims seem all too human. There were also photos of the two girls and the teacher recently killed. Then Hannah’s heart stopped for a moment when they showed a picture of Eden on TV. It was disturbing to see her sister lumped in there with the rest of the dead. They talked about her going missing on the fiftieth anniversary of Crystal Juneau’s disappearance.
Hannah suddenly found it hard to agree with her parents’ assertion that Eden had merely run away.
Apparently, the news reporters and their camera crews were all over the campus by eight o’clock in the morning. The local TV news caught girls on their way to classes and asked if they felt safe on the school grounds tonight. “I think I’m okay in the dorm, but I’m definitely double-locking my door,” one student said.
“My dad doesn’t want me anywhere near the campus tonight,” another girl said. “So I’m catching the train home to Milwaukee this afternoon.”
The whole campus seemed to be on alert. One reporter, standing in front of the garden, even predicted that St. Agnes Village would be deserted by sundown. “And those who are staying will certainly have a long night ahead,” she ominously concluded.
Hannah couldn’t even get through all the phone messages from reporters requesting interviews. Among the missed calls was a voice mail from her dad, who wanted to make sure she wouldn’t be alone tonight. Did she have a school friend whose parents lived nearby? Could she go stay with them? He was flying into Chicago early tomorrow evening to see her and confer with local police about Eden. Hannah texted back that she was staying with Rachel at her parents’ house downtown tonight and couldn’t wait to see him tomorrow.
Ellie had left a similar voice mail: “Hey, Hannah. You’re probably still asleep. We really need to talk. I want to make sure you’re okay. I hope you’re not staying at the bungalow tonight, and I hope you’re not staying with Rachel either. We have to talk about her. I know some things, and Rachel’s not a good friend to have. That’s understating it, honey. Call me as soon as you can. We’ll figure out where you can stay tonight. I can get you deluxe accommodations at some swanky downtown hotel through the Tribune. But that’s just an option. Anyway, please, call me.”
She didn’t respond. She didn’t feel like talking to Ellie—or even texting her. She wondered why Ellie was trying to turn her against Rachel. Maybe she knew that Rachel didn’t like her much either. Hannah felt caught in the middle.
She kept thinking how Ellie had gotten exactly what she wanted—a reporter’s dream: a big national news story, and with herself as the star attraction.
Sitting on the sofa in front of the TV with her, Rachel seemed to think Hannah was the real star attraction. She was the one with the missing sister, the one who had been in another hot national news story two years ago. People still remembered her.
“They’re all waiting outside, just dying to talk to you,” Rachel had said. “Why don’t you do something with your hair and face, get dressed, and go out there. I can give you something of mine to wear if you want to look nice. Don’t you want to be on TV?”
Hannah couldn’t get excited about it. She’d already done the media circus thing.
And what the hell did Rachel mean about givin
g her something of hers to wear if she wanted to look nice?
Hannah had dressed—in her own clothes—for her morning philosophy class and snuck out the back door.
Someone must have given her class schedule to a reporter, because a whole bunch of them had been waiting for her when class had gotten out at noon. She’d reluctantly agreed to talk to a few of them.
That had been almost three hours ago. Hannah had managed to break away for a half hour and grab a salad at O’Donnell Hall. Rachel had texted that it was “complete madness” outside the bungalow. Despite a cancellation from Kim, tonight’s slumber party at the Lake Shore Drive house was still on. Rachel would pack a bag for her. They’d meet at three o’clock in the lobby of Maddie’s dorm, Campbell Hall. Maddie was driving them.
That was in twenty minutes.
Hannah told herself that this WGN-TV interview with the pushy helmet hair lady would be her last before she snuck away.
By now, a crowd had gathered in front of the library. Behind Ms. Helmet Hair, several other reporters were filming Hannah, holding out their mics. She noticed some students in the crowd, their phones raised in the air.
She blanked out for a moment and then remembered what the reporter had asked about the delay in contacting the school and the police after Eden’s disappearance.
“Eden’s always been very independent,” Hannah said into the mic, the neutral half smile on her face. “So it’s not unusual for her to take off on her own for a few hours—or even for a day or two. It’s always driven my parents crazy. But that’s how she was with the woman who raised her. Anyway, the day after she disappeared, I got a text from her saying that she was exploring Chicago, and she was okay. Then a week later, I got the note.”
“The note that’s a word-for-word copy of the letter the Immaculate Conception Killer forced his final victim, Crystal Juneau, to write, isn’t that correct?”
Hannah nodded. “Yes, we figured that out later.”
The Bad Sister Page 38