The Bad Sister

by Kevin O'Brien

  Diana shrugged. “I just figure it might be bad luck. Rachel’s roommate last year was Kayla Kennedy . . .”

  “Was that her name?” Ellie asked. “I knew Rachel had a hand in getting her roommate a scholarship.”

  “Don’t you know the rest of the story?”

  “I guess not,” Ellie admitted.

  “Kayla was from outside Sheboygan, not too well off, the only child of a struggling single mom. You get the picture. Anyway, a couple of years ago, Kayla was riding her bicycle—she was a big bicyclist—she was crossing abridge when she saw a car spin out of control. It crashed through the guardrail and plunged into the water. Kayla came to the rescue just as the car was sinking. She dove into the water and saved the passengers—a young mother and a toddler. She was a hero. It was big news. It was in all the papers.”

  Ellie wondered how come she didn’t know about it. She must have been dealing with the arson investigation at the time. “Did Rachel Bonner know her?” Ellie asked.

  “No, but I guess she read about her, and the next thing you know, Kayla Kennedy had a full-paid scholarship to Our Lady of the Cove, and for her freshman year, she was sharing a bungalow with Rachel Bonner.”

  Ellie realized that it must have happened the same way for Hannah and Eden O’Rourke. Rachel must have read about them, and then set up the scholarships and the same living arrangements she’d had with Kayla Kennedy.

  She frowned at Diana. “So why is that bad luck?”

  “Well, because Kayla Kennedy’s dead. She was killed in a bike accident over the summer.”

  Dumbfounded, Ellie just stared at her.

  Diana winced a bit and then nodded. “That’s what I mean when I say, being Rachel Bonner’s roommate isn’t a position I’d want to fill.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Wednesday, 3:12 P.M.

  Hannah stopped by the small shrine to St. Lucy near the library. Rachel had been right. Practically every time Hannah turned around—especially in the older section of the campus—she found herself looking at a statue of another virgin martyr. After nearly a week at Our Lady of the Cove, Hannah barely noticed them anymore. This shrine by the library was yet another little garden patch with a stone bench. Amid the roses was a weather-worn statue of Lucy, who, like St. Agnes, was executed with a sword-thrust to the throat.

  Hannah sat down and texted Rachel:

  I’m headed home. Need to C U. It’s important.

  For the last six days, Rachel had been her best friend, her guide, her touchstone. Hannah couldn’t have survived here without her. Rachel was just like the “big sister” she said she was. She’d even helped Hannah get over the whole Riley heartbreak.

  Over the weekend, Hannah had sent him three texts. Just checking in, she’d told him. She’d expressed concern about his “family emergency.” In only one of the texts had she asked if they were still on for Saturday. She’d done her best not to put any pressure on him.

  The son of a bitch didn’t respond at all.

  Rachel said she’d done everything right. Hannah had shown her the photo of Riley on the boat deck. “Yeah, he’s a stone fox,” Rachel had told her, “but a lot of good that does you if he’s totally unavailable. This early in the relationship, he shouldn’t be ignoring you like this. I don’t care if his entire family is being held hostage by terrorists. The guy could answer a simple text. I say, move on! Why do you want to be with somebody who leaves you feeling this insecure?”

  Hanging out with Rachel had been a wonderful distraction. Alden had also helped her get over Riley. Hannah always got a little thrill whenever he dropped by the bungalow. Rachel had said Alden was gay, but as far as Hannah was concerned, the jury was still out. She hadn’t had the nerve to ask him point blank. Maybe it was because she didn’t want to hear the answer. It was too much fun having a little crush on him—and wondering if it was reciprocal. Sometimes, she caught him gazing at her with a certain look in his beautiful brown eyes, and it took her breath away. Or was she imagining things? Maybe it was just wishful thinking.

  The other guy who helped take her mind off Riley was J.T., a lifeguard at the campus rec center’s pool. Although the pool was indoors, he still had a gorgeous, dark tan. He was boy-next-door cute with a swimmer’s build and flecks of gold in his shaggy brown hair. So far, Hannah had gone swimming in the rec center twice, and both times, she’d caught him looking.

  “It’s his job to watch you, stupid,” Eden had pointed out. “God, vain enough?”

  J.T. was a junior, and according to Rachel, he’d slept with a ton of girls on the campus. But Hannah didn’t care. It was still nice to have an extremely cute guy noticing her. And it gave her extra incentive to go swimming and get her exercise three times a week.

  One man whose attention she didn’t appreciate much was Lance, the creepy janitor Eden had told her about their first night on campus, the one from the Sunnyside Up Café. Eden had pointed him out to Hannah during one of their rare outings together on campus. He’d stared at them, nodded, and smirked. For the rest of their walk to the O’Donnell Hall cafeteria for breakfast, she and Eden had argued:

  He was looking at you.

  No, it was you, Hannah. I’m sure he was checking you out.

  No, it’s obvious he has a serious crush on you. And I’ll be honored to be a bridesmaid at your wedding.

  Hannah kept noticing him again and again—all over the campus. He was usually operating a leaf-blower, but other times, he just seemed to be lurking. Hannah had a feeling he was the one prowling outside her bedroom window in the thunderstorm on her first night in bungalow twenty. Rachel maintained he was quite harmless. Lance had an on-again-off-again thing going with a divorcée in Waukegan. That was also where he lived—in a house with his mother. The property was owned by one of Mr. Bonner’s corporations. Rachel rented the place to them for some ridiculously cheap price. It was practically like charity. Lance’s mother, Alma, was Rachel’s cleaning woman and laundress. Once a week, she cleaned the bungalow—everything except for Hannah and Eden’s room. Hannah had run into her in the living room last week—a sullen, sixty-something, copper-haired woman who smelled like disinfectant. Around her neck, she wore a chain with a clunky-looking fake-gold crucifix. Her pale pink sweatshirt had a photo of two kittens on it. According to Rachel, Alma came by at least one other time during the week to pick up or drop off Rachel’s laundry. She had her own key. It made Hannah nervous to think that Alma’s creepy son had such easy access to the key to their bungalow.

  She could have used Alma’s services in Eden’s and her bedroom—or at least, for Eden’s half of it. Hannah had settled in, put art posters on the wall, throw-pillows on the bed, and fun knickknacks on the shelf. But Eden’s side of the tiny room was a mess, and the wall was still bare. Eden said she didn’t see any point in decorating or unpacking since she’d be moving out. Apparently, that was also her rationale for not making her bed and leaving her dirty clothes wherever she goddamn pleased.

  Eden was now on a waiting list for a room in O’Donnell Hall or one of the other bungalows in St. Agnes Village. Rachel claimed she wanted Eden to stay: “I’d hate to break up our team—our sisterhood.”

  Hannah had no idea why Rachel was being so nice to Eden, who had made no effort to be friendly to her. Practically every time Rachel and Hannah had stepped out together, Rachel had invited Eden along. But Eden had continually shot her down, preferring instead to go explore on her own.

  Hannah felt so lucky to be Rachel’s roommate and friend. She got a rush just hanging out with her. Not only was Rachel fun, stylish, and generous, she was also Chicago royalty. It was like being friends with a celebrity.

  Rachel was a bit of a mystery, too. Hannah still didn’t feel she knew her very well. Of course, their intense, whirlwind friendship had been going on for only six days.

  And now, this bombshell.

  Why hadn’t Rachel told her she was the one who had gotten them their scholarships? The whole thing had been arranged. Now their fr
iendship, the roommate setup, and all of it seemed so forced and fake. She and Eden were Rachel Bonner’s charity cases—like Lance and his mother.

  Was Ellie Goodwin right when she’d said Rachel must have read about them in the newspapers or on the Internet? And then what? Had she felt sorry for them and decided to pay their way through school? It made Hannah feel like a freak—a sad, pathetic freak. She wasn’t Rachel Bonner’s friend. She was her project.

  Her back to St. Lucy, Hannah got up from the bench and headed for St. Agnes Village. Just as she reached the front door to the bungalow, her cell phone buzzed. It was Rachel texting back:

  B home in 15 min. Wuzzup?

  Biting her lip, Hannah replied:

  Tell U when U get here.

  She shoved her phone in her tote, took out her key, and unlocked the door. As she opened it, she spotted Eden coming down the stairs—obviously from the bathroom. Eden stopped on the bottom step and gave her a look. “Oh shit, what did I do now? Are you pissed because I asked Ellie Goodwin a few hardball questions? She’s a big girl. I think she handled it okay.”

  “I’m not pissed about that, at least, not anymore.” Hannah took a deep breath and shut the door behind her. “I was just talking to Ellie. Guess who owns the Slate-Gannon Group.”

  Eden leaned against the newel post at the bottom step. “I haven’t a clue.”

  “Rachel’s father,” Hannah said. “She set up the whole thing—our scholarships and this whole living arrangement. Can you believe it?”

  Eden seemed to ponder the question. “Huh” was all she said.

  “That’s it?” Hannah asked. “Aren’t you upset?”

  Eden shrugged. “Well, now that I know she’s paying for everything, I guess I should suck up to her more. Then again, you’ve been sucking up enough for the two of us.” She stepped down and headed through the living room toward their bedroom.

  “I haven’t been sucking up to her,” Hannah argued, trailing after her. “I’ve genuinely liked her. I thought she was my friend. Don’t you feel deceived—and manipulated?”

  Eden took off her shirt as she entered their bedroom. She tossed it on her unmade bed. “I really don’t see why you’re having a cow.”

  “I don’t like being somebody’s charity case,” Hannah grumbled, dropping her tote on her bed.

  “Well, I guess I’m used to it.”

  Hannah plopped down in her desk chair. She realized that Eden had accepted charity two years ago when Hannah’s parents took her into their home.

  Eden peeled off her jeans. “Besides, we knew it was charity when we took the scholarships. We just didn’t know that your BFF, the princess, was behind it all.” Eden left her rumpled jeans on the floor and stood there in her bra and panties. She put her hands on her hips. “If I were you, I’d get over it pretty fast and just enjoy the free ride. You want to piss her off and have her cancel our scholarships? I don’t know about you, but I happen to like it here.” She reached over and switched on the fan. “Then again, if you’re really so outraged, maybe you should be the one to move out, and I’ll stay here.”

  Hannah sighed. She hated that her half-sister almost made sense. “I didn’t tell you the other thing. You know the girl who lived here before us? Well, Rachel got her a scholarship, too.”

  Eden dug a pair of cut-offs and a T-shirt out of her moving box. “You mean, the girl they couldn’t stand? If it’s yellow, it’s mellow?”

  Hannah nodded glumly. “She and Alden were Rachel’s charity cases last year.”

  Eden paused for a moment before putting on her clothes. “Well, he’s still around,” she said—almost to herself. “I wonder what happened to her.”

  * * *

  On one of the desktop monitors, he watched Eden O’Rourke step into her cut-offs.

  He wished Hannah had been the one to get undressed for him. But she was still sitting at her desk.

  On Tuesday morning, while the three girls were at classes, he’d snuck into the bungalow and installed a nanny-cam in the small bedroom. It was a wireless model, less than three inches tall and three inches wide, very hard to detect. He’d taken apart the box fan and hidden it in the corner inside. It peeked through the grillwork in front. The fan blades didn’t obscure anything. The picture quality was pretty good, too.

  Last night, he’d watched Hannah strip down to her panties. He’d only caught the most fleeting glimpse of her breasts before she turned her back to the hidden camera and donned a robe. But he’d seen enough to replay it again and again while masturbating.

  He really wished she would get undressed now. She’d been wearing those clothes all day, running from one class to another. And it was hot out again. Didn’t she want to slip into something else, something more casual and lighter?

  He should have planted a listening device in there—so he could hear what Hannah and her half-sister were saying. It looked like they might be having another argument.

  He wondered if Hannah would miss her when she was gone.

  It didn’t look like Hannah intended to get undressed any time soon. So he got to his feet and moved over to the window. He looked out at the backyard—at the tool shed.

  It was empty right now, but wouldn’t be for long.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Wednesday, 3:20 P.M.

  Ellie had compiled three “Arson Story” computer files containing mug shots, police sketches, and captioned photos of various suspects in her investigation. Each file had at least one hundred subjects. She was almost done going through the second file. So far, she hadn’t found anyone who even resembled Nicholas Jensen. She’d had one false alarm—a police sketch of a suspected arsonist who looked like a mustached version of Jensen, but his approximate height was listed as five feet, five inches, which made him about eight inches shorter than the man in her journalism class.

  She sat at her desk in her closet-size office on the fourth floor of Lombard Hall. But she had a window—with a fire escape and a view of the lake if she pressed her cheek against the glass. There was just enough room for her desk and chair, a file cabinet, a bookcase, a visitor’s chair, and an old-fashioned radiator. The wall was covered with awards, citations, and plaques she’d received for her newspaper reporting, most of them specifically for the arson series. At first, Ellie had kept the awards stashed in her closet. She’d never had her own office at the newspaper, just a desk. And she’d never been interested in exhibiting her awards at home. But now, in her little shoebox of an office, she had a place to display her citations—which impressed no one except maybe a few people in Our Lady of the Cove’s administration department. It was good for the college to have an award-winning journalist teaching there.

  As she stared at the computer screen, Ellie couldn’t help wincing. She hadn’t looked at these mug shots since she’d written the arson series two years ago. Each image was a reminder of all her hard work, the sleepless nights, and the constant fear. During the investigation, Ellie had known the deeper she dug, the more she put herself in danger. And these were scary-looking guys. The police sketches were the worst—flat, cartoon faces with cold, staring eyes. The mug shots weren’t much better. They all looked so sleazy and cruel. She remembered how some of those faces haunted her. She used to imagine waking up and finding one of those men standing in her bedroom.

  Now, she could too easily see one of them marching into her classroom with an assault weapon.

  Every time she clicked on a new image, it was with apprehension. She really didn’t want to remember any of these guys. Some of them were still out there, sending her emails. Every once in a while, Ellie came upon the image of someone with the American Family Preservationists—a lowlife, petty criminal turned warped, self-righteous crusader. She’d helped put some of them in jail—and wondered if they were out now.

  As she clicked on the last mug shot of the second file, Ellie wanted to give up—or at least take a break before looking at the final batch. She didn’t think she’d find Nicholas Jensen among these cre
eps. He’d seemed far more interested in Hannah O’Rourke than he was in her.

  Ellie wondered if she should be worried for Hannah rather than for herself.

  Instead of opening up the last file of arson suspects, Ellie clicked onto Google and typed in the search box: Kayla Kennedy death.

  The subject had been gnawing at Ellie since her friend Diana had brought it up. “A bike accident” was how Diana had described the death of Rachel Bonner’s roommate. She hadn’t said if anyone else had been involved or if there had been witnesses.

  The first search result Ellie found was an article from the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel dated June 7. Kayla couldn’t have been home from school for more than a week before she was killed. The headline read:

  SHEBOYGAN GIRL DIES IN BICYCLE ACCIDENT

  Kayla Kennedy Was Known for Heroic Rescue of Drowning Mother and Child

  A photo of Kayla accompanied the article. With her short-shorn dark hair, she looked like a tomboy. She had a cute, impish smile.

  According to the article, Kayla was riding her bicycle to Pine Hills Country Club, where she worked the morning shift as a waitress. Ellie imagined that it hadn’t been light out for long, and the roads must have been nearly deserted. Somehow, Kayla had lost control of her bike, careened into a gully, and been killed. No vehicles were involved. There were no witnesses.

  Ellie couldn’t find any follow-up articles in the Journal Sentinel that gave further details about the accident. There was nothing about an investigation.

  She found a brief follow-up piece in the Sheboygan Press. It was about Kayla Kennedy’s memorial service, and it featured a photo of a young woman walking down the church steps. The caption read:

  Chicago’s Rachel Bonner, former roommate to Kayla Kennedy at Our Lady of the Cove, was among those who attended the memorial service on Saturday.