The Bad Sister

by Kevin O'Brien

  “You and Ellie Goodwin figured it out together. You two have been close friends through all of this, haven’t you?”

  Hannah hesitated. “Well, actually, she’s my teacher . . .”

  “But you turned to her when your sister disappeared. How do you feel about the college firing Ellie Goodwin?”

  “Well, she’s a good journalism teacher. I hope they reconsider and take her back.” Hannah hated answering these questions about Ellie—especially when she still wasn’t sure how she felt about her.

  “Will you be staying on campus tonight, Hannah?” the reporter asked gravely.

  Hannah knew Rachel would kill her if she even hinted about the slumber party. So she just shook her head. “No, I have plans to be somewhere else tonight,” she said cryptically.

  Ten minutes later, she managed to give the reporters the slip and took a roundabout way to Campbell Hall. She found Rachel and Alden with the suitcases, waiting in the lobby by the glass doors.

  They were looking at Rachel’s phone, watching one of Hannah’s interviews. Rachel rolled her eyes at her. “I could have told you that blouse would look absolutely hideous on camera,” she sighed. “And God, a little makeup might have helped, too. HD isn’t very forgiving.”

  “God, catty enough?” Alden made a meowing sound. He smiled at Hannah. “I think you look pretty, and pay no attention to Rachel. She’s just jealous, because she’s used to being the center of attention. And now you’re the one on TV, with your phone ringing off the hook—”

  “Shut up!” Rachel snapped.

  He chuckled. “See? I hit a nerve—”

  “No, seriously, shut up,” she said, punching each word.

  For a second, he looked totally wounded. Glancing down, he grabbed their overnight bags and carried them out the door.

  Hannah remained in the lobby with Rachel.

  “I didn’t mean to sound bitchy,” Rachel muttered, turning off the web news and shoving the phone in her coat pocket. “I’m just in a crappy mood, that’s all. The clinic where we got tested emailed me the results an hour ago. Your dad’s doctor was right. We’re not sisters. The results showed you and I are first cousins.”

  “Oh, wow,” was all Hannah could say.

  “I guess my mother—your aunt Molly—must have lied on the birth certificate about who my father was.”

  “Well, at least we’re cousins,” Hannah said, shrugging. “We’re still family.”

  “Yeah, I guess that’s something,” Rachel said, staring out the glass doors. “Anyway, I promise I won’t let it ruin our slumber party tonight.”

  Hannah followed her gaze. Alden was outside with their bags. The curbside was crowded with several of the dorm’s residents, each one with a small suitcase or overnight bag, waiting to be picked up. There seemed to be a mass exodus of students who wanted to avoid the campus tonight.

  “That’s Maddie’s car,” Rachel said, nudging Hannah. They stepped outside as Alden loaded the overnight bags into the backseat of Maddie’s Jetta.

  “Don’t bruise my Louis Vuitton, young man!” Rachel called in a mock regal tone.

  Hannah noticed Alden barely cracked a smile. He wouldn’t look at either of them. “So, I’ll see you guys later tonight. And I’ll be sure to bring a couple of guys worthy of your company. So far, I have two firm maybes.”

  “Thanks, Alden,” Hannah said, touching his shoulder.

  “Hannah O’Rourke!” someone called.

  She turned and saw another woman reporter, this one a brunette, trailed by a man with a camcorder. They weaved through the girls on the curb to descend on them.

  Before Hannah realized what was happening, Rachel pushed her into the backseat of the Jetta. “Get in, get in . . .”

  “Hannah, can we have a statement?” the reporter called.

  Rachel shut the back door and swiveled around toward them. “Why don’t you just fuck off?” she screamed.

  The reporter and her cameraman stopped in their tracks.

  Rachel opened the front door and jumped into the passenger seat. “C’mon, Maddie, let’s get out of here,” she hissed, slamming her door.

  Maddie, a pretty redhead with freckles, gaped at her and laughed. “My God, Rachel . . .”

  “Would you step on it?” she yelled.

  “Well, yes, ma’am!” Maddie let out another laugh and then pulled away from the curb.

  “I’m sick of all these stupid reporters!” Rachel declared. “And I didn’t feel like being on TV.”

  “Well, not much danger of that happening,” Hannah said. “‘ Why don’t you just fuck off ?’”

  Maddie started laughing again as she steered down a campus side street. Rachel began to giggle, too.

  Hannah’s phone rang, and she dug it out of her purse.

  But Rachel turned in her seat and swiped the phone from Hannah’s grasp. “No phones until we get settled in tonight. I don’t want anyone knowing about our secret slumber party. And you just may let it slip . . .”

  “Are you serious?” Hannah asked over the sound of her phone ringing. Dumbfounded, she watched Rachel stash the phone in her purse. Then Rachel plucked Maddie’s phone from the dashboard holder, and dropped that in her purse, too.

  “Hey, I need that for navigation!” Maddie said.

  “I know the way by heart—and the best route to take Friday afternoons,” Rachel said.

  Hannah felt helpless without her phone—and today of all days. With her hand out, she leaned forward. “Listen, Rachel, I’m sorry, but I really need my phone. My dad’s calling later. He’s flying in tomorrow night, and I need to get his flight information . . .”

  “You can talk to him later, after we get settled,” Rachel decreed. “No phones until after dinner. Those are the slumber party hostess’s rules.”

  She turned around and faced forward.

  Hannah stared at the back of her head. She listened to the muffled ringing inside Rachel’s purse. Then, finally it stopped.

  She sat back and wondered what she was getting herself into tonight.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  Friday, 3:22 P.M.

  “Could you wait for me?” Nate asked the taxi driver, a middle-aged East Indian man with a gray mustache and a blue turban.

  “I can do that,” the driver answered with a trace of an accent.

  “Thanks.” Nate handed him the fare along with an extra twenty-dollar bill and a piece of notebook paper. “Keep the meter running. If I’m not out in ten minutes, honk and then call the number there . . .”

  The driver glanced at the piece of paper. “I know this name . . .” He took a folded copy of the Chicago Tribune from the front passenger seat and waved it. “Is this the same Ellie Goodwin, the newspaper reporter on TV this morning?”

  “Sure is.” Nate nodded. “And my name’s Nate. If I don’t come out of there, call her and tell her where I am . . .”

  “Got it,” said the cabbie. “Whatever it is you’re up to, good luck.”

  “Thanks, I need it,” Nate said. Taking a deep breath, he stepped out of the taxi. He had on the same tie and blazer he’d worn yesterday for his meeting with Ms. Houghton. He carried a large FedEx envelope he’d stuffed with two newspapers and then sealed. He’d filled out a label he’d also picked up from FedEx and stuck it on the front of the envelope:

  Richard J. Bonner

  c/o Donald Sloane

  Chicago, IL 60606

  He’d purposely made the middle line with the street address totally illegible.

  Nate stopped to look at the Bonners’ art deco four-story mansion, squeezed between two tall apartment buildings on Lake Shore Drive. He’d gotten the Bonners’ address from Frank ages ago. When he’d first moved to the Chicago area, Nate had made a habit of walking by the house and studying it whenever he could. Now he hoped to get inside.

  He realized there was still time to turn around, jump into the cab, and have the driver take him back two miles to the U-Park lot where he’d left his car. He’d hai
led the cab from there so, if he had to make a quick getaway, no one working for the Bonners could take down his license plate number.

  He’d been so frustrated, getting all that valuable information from Vivien Houghton, but not being able to act on it. Meanwhile, in comparison, Ellie had made such a tremendous breakthrough today. She was a genuine mover and shaker.

  Nate couldn’t just sit still and remain in hiding. He’d already had two years of that, and where had it gotten him? He had to do something—even if it was a little reckless and impulsive. He was going in with guns blazing. He’d gain entry into the Bonners’ mansion and confront Richard or Candace Bonner. And if they called the police, that was fine by him. The last thing they probably wanted was for him to talk to the police.

  This morning, he’d bought a small Sony audio recorder, which fit nicely inside the pocket of his blue blazer. He’d accuse Richard or Candace of having Molly Driscoll murdered—and then having Marcia Lindahl killed as part of a cover-up. Those names alone would get their attention. And he would record their response. Even if they denied it and threw him out, at the very least, he might catch one of them in a lie that could spark an official investigation.

  Nate knew it was a brash, hurried strategy, and for all his efforts, he’d probably meet the same fate as Gil. But he had to shake things up, stir up a shit-storm. He wanted to expose these people—the way Ellie had exposed this killer. Even if he was killed or he suddenly “disappeared,” Ellie wouldn’t let it go. She knew everything, and she’d see to it that the Bonners were brought to justice.

  Nate took another deep breath and buzzed the intercom box on the post by the front gate. Glancing up, he noticed the security camera on top of the post, pointed down at him. He brought the envelope up to his chest—so the camera was sure to capture it. He turned his head away and then glanced down at the sidewalk. He didn’t want to give the camera a long, uninterrupted view of his face. He didn’t want them knowing who he was—at least not until he’d confronted them.

  He waited another half-minute and buzzed again. His heart was pounding.

  He glanced back at the taxi, waiting for him.

  There was a click on the intercom. “Yes? Who is it?” a man asked.

  “Um, I have an envelope here for Mr. Bonner,” Nate said, his throat going dry. “Mr. Sloane sent me over with it.”

  “Just a minute.” There was another click from the intercom.

  Nate waited for a buzzer to sound that would open the gate, but nothing happened. Instead, the front door opened, and out stepped a slim, forty-something man with thinning hair. He wore a blue suit. He looked slightly annoyed—and in a hurry. He came to the gate. “I’ll take it in,” he said, reaching his hand between two bars of the wrought iron gate.

  Nate shook his head. “Sorry. I have strict instructions from Sloane to place this in Mr. Bonner’s hands—or Mrs. Bonner’s if he’s not around.” He briefly showed the front of the envelope to the man so he caught only a fleeting glimpse of the label.

  “Well, neither one of them is around. They took off this morning for their house in Lake Geneva. They’ll be back Sunday afternoon.”

  Nate anxiously looked over the man’s shoulder at the mansion.

  “The place is empty. I’m just here locking up.”

  “Well, I need to get this to one of the Bonners by tonight. Listen, I ought to know, but maybe you can save me some time and give me the address of the Lake Geneva House.”

  The man flatly stared at him for a moment. “Let’s just see some ID, bub.”

  Nate let out an exasperated sigh. “Screw it. I’ll just call the office—if you want to get all official on me. I don’t have time for this shit . . .” He swiveled around and hurried back into the cab. He opened the door and jumped in.

  “Get me out of here, please,” he said under his breath. Then he shut the door.

  As the taxi peeled away, Nate glanced out the rear window.

  He sa w the man must have opened the gate. He now stood in the street, at the outer edge of the parking lane. He was talking into his phone.

  And he was staring up the street at him.

  * * *

  “Nate, are you crazy?” she whispered into her phone. “That’s an awful plan! You’re going to get yourself killed!”

  Ellie had just recorded an interview for WGN News at their downtown studios. She was still wearing the TV makeup from the segment. She’d really needed it, too. She hadn’t gotten much sleep last night and was dead tired from running around like a madwoman today. She was in the building lobby when Nate called.

  “So, you won’t help me?” he asked. “I tried looking it up on Google, and nothing. I figured somebody at the Tribune must know the Bonners’ Lake Geneva address. You guys must have some record of it from when the place was built or when they moved there. That’s all I’m asking.”

  “You’re asking me to help you get killed,” Ellie said. “Listen, there are better ways of handling this than barging into the Bonners’ vacation home and accusing them of murder. You’ll end up in some godforsaken woods—with one of Sloane’s men holding a gun to your head while you dig your own grave. Between you and me, we have enough on them to start a detailed investigation. There’s no reason to rush into this. Now, why don’t you go home? I’ll meet you at your place in a couple of hours—”

  “It’s too late,” he said, cutting her off. “I have to act on this tonight. The guy who was locking up the Lake Shore Drive house for the weekend, I’m pretty sure he’s one of Sloane’s guys. I know I put him on alert. They have footage of me from the security cameras at the front gate. It won’t take them long to ID me as Gil Bergquist’s assumed-dead brother. I need to do this tonight, Ellie. I’m headed up to Lake Geneva right now. I just stopped to fill up at a gas station on Touhy. If you can’t think of anyone at the Tribune who knows the Bonners’ vacation home address, that’s okay. I’m sure, if I ask around at enough places in Lake Geneva, someone will know.”

  “Just—just hold on, okay?” Ellie said. “Give me a little time, and I’ll get the address for you. Let me find out about the setup there. You might not be able to get past the front gate—especially if they’re expecting you. And it sounds like they might be. For all we know, the Bonners could be out at some gala fundraiser or something. I’ll ask the woman who runs the society page if they’re attending something tonight. She might even know their favorite haunts there in Lake Geneva. In fact, now that I think of it, you’d almost be safer confronting them in front of a roomful of people. If you disappear the next day, there’ll be questions. So maybe you can catch them out and about tonight.” Ellie sighed. “God, I can’t believe I’m helping you with this harebrained scheme . . .”

  “I can’t believe it either,” he said, sounding awestruck. “You’re amazing, Ellie. And you were wonderful on TV today.”

  Ellie felt herself blushing. “Well, thanks. Listen, don’t do anything until you hear back from me.” She glanced at her wristwatch. “Drive safely,” she said. “It’s Friday, rush hour, and the last weekend in September. Lots of people are leaving town. Traffic is bound to be nuts.”

  “Thanks, Ellie,” he said.

  “Take care,” she said. Then she hung up.

  She quickly checked for the calls she’d missed while doing her TV spot. There were a few, but nothing from Hannah. Ellie had left her several voice mails and texts. She knew Hannah had been safe about an hour ago. At the TV studio, she’d heard they were editing a piece with an interview Hannah had given at the school from around three o’clock.

  Ellie didn’t want her spending the night there at the bungalow. She imagined Hannah and Rachel there alone—right next door to bungalow eighteen, where it had all happened fifty years ago tonight. Two pretty girls alone, two potential victims—the tribute killer couldn’t resist.

  Ellie figured, on her way up to Lake Geneva to chase down Nate, she’d swing by St. Agnes Village and make sure Hannah was safe.

  She dialed her reporter
friend at the Tribune.

  “Hey, Ellie,” he answered on the second ring.

  “Hey, Garth, I know you want to go home, but I have something else brewing.”

  “I don’t want to ask. But go ahead. What is it?”

  “Remember yesterday, I mentioned Donald Sloane and the Bonners, and you said you might know some stuff, and we agreed to put it on the back burner for a day or two?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Well, it needs to go on the front burner—now. And I need to talk to someone there who knows the Bonners’ Lake Geneva home address and their favorite haunts up there . . .”

  “Where are you right now? Are you still over at WGN?”

  “Yeah, I just finished the TV interview.”

  “Well, haul your ass over here, and we’ll get to work.”

  * * *

  Hannah glanced at her wristwatch. It was 5:45. She’d been without her phone for nearly three hours, and it was killing her. Her kid brother, Steve, used to kid about her being unable to breathe correctly if she didn’t have her cell phone with her, and damn it, he was right.

  But that wasn’t the only reason she felt on edge.

  It had just gotten dark out, and already Hannah was scared. She knew once Alden showed up with his friends, she’d feel safer. But right now, the house seemed too big and empty for just the three of them.

  She was sitting on the end of Rachel’s bed while Rachel showed Maddie her closet and the fancy shoe storage unit. Maddie was impressed. Hannah realized that Maddie didn’t know Rachel very well. She seemed nice enough—especially in comparison to the way Rachel was acting. Hannah knew she was upset over the DNA test results and tried to be sympathetic. But really, did Rachel have to be so sarcastic and bitchy during the entire car ride? And Miss I-Know-the-Best-Way-to-My-House had been totally wrong about getting there. The traffic had been awful, and the trip had taken nearly two hours.

  Hannah was watching the news on the TV in Rachel’s bedroom. They were reporting on the Immaculate Conception killings again—the ones back in 1970 and the recent “tribute” murders. They showed the campus at dusk. St. Agnes Village looked deserted. The camera zoomed in on St. Ursula’s chrysanthemum garden, where the number of flowers, balloons, and flickering candles had more than doubled since this morning.