“Did they say where in downtown Chicago?” Ellie asked.
Hannah thought for a moment. “According to the private detective they hired, it was North Clark and West Wacker Drive. Is that right? Is there really a street downtown called Wacker?”
Ellie nodded. “That’s the Clark Street Bridge—over the Chicago River.”
She figured the copycat killer had tossed Eden’s phone into the river.
He must have had bridges on his mind this weekend.
“I had no idea Eden was so serious about not wanting anyone to find her,” Hannah murmured. “I mean, I can’t imagine getting rid of my phone like that. Then again, she had hers turned off more than she ever had it turned on. Still . . .”
“Do you really believe she ran away?” Ellie asked quietly.
“I don’t know. I keep thinking of those texts that didn’t sound like her—same thing with that note she left in our room. She began it, Dear Sis. She’s never called me ‘sis’—except maybe a few times when she was trying to be a wise ass.”
“Wait a minute,” Ellie said. She reached into her purse. “Do you still have that note someplace?”
“Yeah, in fact, I have it on my phone. I took a picture of it to text to my parents. I wanted them to see what she said . . .”
“Find it, will you?” Ellie grabbed her phone out of her purse and started hunting for the photos she’d taken from files in the Tribune’s archives. She briefly glanced up to see Hannah swiping and searching her phone screen as well.
Ellie finally found what she was looking for. “‘Dear Sis,’” she read aloud. “‘Looks like I missed you. I swung by to pick up some things. Don’t worry about me. I’m f ine . . .’” Ellie looked up to see that Hannah was reading along on her phone screen.
They both started reading in unison: “‘. . . I just needed to get away and I’m not ready to come back yet. Tell the folks not to worry. I’ll be in touch. Okay?’”
Hannah stopped reading aloud, but Ellie continued: “‘Take care. X-X-X, Me.’”
Glancing up from the phone, Ellie found Hannah gaping at her.
“How did you get a hold of Eden’s note?” Hannah asked.
Ellie shook her head. “It’s not Eden’s. It’s the note Crystal Juneau was forced to write to her sister while the Immaculate Conception Killer kept her locked up in that shack in his backyard. It’s the same thing, word for word. The copycat didn’t change a syllable.”
“My God,” Hannah whispered.
“I’m going to text you this photo of the original note—from 1970.” Ellie worked her fingers over the phone. “And I’m texting you some other pictures—along with some texts I’ve sent to our local law enforcement. You know that girl who supposedly killed herself last week—and the girl who fell down those stairs and broke her neck over the weekend?”
Wide-eyed, Hannah nodded at her.
“I’m pretty certain those girls were murdered by someone copying the Immaculate Conception killings. It’s an idea you first put in my head.”
“The one nobody took seriously,” Hannah said.
“Yes, no one took it seriously. But the similarities between these recent . . . ‘fatalities’ and the murders that occurred exactly fifty years before are irrefutable. I’ve been trying to convince Detective Castino of the Delmar Police, but he’s chalking it all up to a bunch of bizarre coincidences. He won’t listen to me. But maybe he’ll listen to your parents. He’s sure to pay attention to them after they show him the two letters.”
Ellie glanced up from her phone for a moment. “Now, before you forward this material to your folks and call them, maybe I should tell you what I’m talking about and what these texts mean . . .”
Hannah was studying her phone and working her thumbs over the screen. Ellie could only see the top of her head. “Hannah, are you listening to me?”
“Yes, my mom and dad aren’t getting back from work until about seven-thirty our time.” Hannah was still looking at her phone. “So I’ll send the texts as soon as we finish up here, and then I’ll talk to them around a quarter to eight.”
Hannah finally looked up at her. She seemed dazed. “God, I can’t believe these two letters. They’re exactly the same. How can anybody call this just a coincidence?”
“They can’t, Hannah,” she replied. “They can’t.”
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Tuesday, 8:50 P.M.
“It didn’t go over so well,” Hannah said on the other end of the line, “at least, not how we expected.”
Sitting at her kitchen table, Ellie held the phone to her ear. This was a crushing blow.
She’d had such hope. The two handwritten notes between the two sets of sisters, fifty years apart, had felt like a breakthrough. With those two letters, how could the police keep denying the existence of a copycat killer? Ellie had figured that, at last, local law enforcement would get busy looking for Eden O’Rourke. And they’d start the search for the man holding her prisoner, the same man who had already killed two young women.
Ellie rubbed her forehead. “Didn’t the two notes make any kind of impression?”
“My dad got my brother to Google Crystal’s letter, and it took him less than two minutes to find the entire contents of it. Everyone seemed to agree, copying that note was the kind of thing that Eden might do—just to be perverse.”
“No, you can’t be serious!” Ellie moaned. “C’mon, who would do that?”
“Eden would,” Hannah said glumly. “They’re right. She knew a lot about those murders. She read up on them after the fire in the laundry room. It would be just like Eden to write the exact same note as the abducted girl—to screw around with me. Even if I never made the connection, she’d do something like that for the mere fun of it.”
“I can’t believe this,” Ellie said. With the phone to her ear, she got up from the table, opened the kitchen cabinet, and took out a bottle of Cabernet. “Didn’t any of the photos or the other evidence sway them at all?”
“Yeah—at first,” Hannah replied. “They called this Detective Castino with the Delmar Police, and they called the school, too. I guess my dad was on the phone with them for at least a half hour. The Castino guy said he knew all about your copycat theories. He said you were grieving because the girl who hung herself was your friend. The priest in charge here at the school said you’ve been trying to write a news story about Rachel, Eden, and me—”
“That’s not true,” Ellie said, setting the wine bottle on the counter.
“He thought you were a bad influence on me. He said you were using me. It’s funny, because Alden said the same thing this afternoon—about you using me.”
“Hannah . . .”
“I told them they were wrong. I told them you were my friend. Anyway, this priest said he’d warned you over a week ago to stop seeing me outside of class. He was really upset that you went ahead and kept getting together with me. I—I hope I didn’t get you into trouble with him . . .”
“Hannah, this priest, this Father O’Hurley, he has the wrong idea about me. He’s made all these assumptions. And I’m sorry, I know he’s a priest, but he’s a total jerk. He and Castino are so worried about causing a panic at the school that they want to bury this whole thing. I warned them in advance about the girl dying on September 20, but they wouldn’t listen . . .”
“Ellie?”
She took a deep breath and then sank down on the kitchen chair. She’d left the open wine bottle and a clean, empty glass on the kitchen counter. “Yes, Hannah?”
“You weren’t really using me for some big story, were you?”
“No, I wasn’t. I’m your friend, Hannah. I care about you. And I want them to find your sister before it’s too late.”
“You know how you said maybe Eden found out something and it upset her so much that she ran away?”
Ellie hesitated. “Yes?”
“You said maybe she knew something about Rachel’s adoption that she didn’t tell us.” Hannah’s tone was
listless and dejected. “Maybe she knew we might not get to keep our scholarships.”
“What do you mean?”
“My dad got the paternity test results back from his doctor tonight. It turns out Rachel isn’t his daughter. She’s not our half-sister. Maybe Eden already knew that, and she figured Rachel would cancel our scholarships. My dad thinks maybe that’s why she ran away and decided to stay in Chicago for a while.”
“Oh, Hannah,” Ellie murmured. “Are you okay? How do you feel about that?”
“I don’t know,” she whimpered. “It’s all so weird. If the birth certificate is right about my aunt Molly being her mother—which is a lot harder to fake—then, well, I guess Rachel and I are still cousins. Eden wouldn’t be related to her at all. The important question is how Rachel will feel when I tell her about all this. She doesn’t know yet. Her parents already predicted that the test would come back negative. They figured my dad would make his doctor fudge the results so he wouldn’t be held accountable for another illegitimate kid—which is bullshit. He wouldn’t do that even if he could get away with it. Anyway, I need to talk to Rachel sometime soon and face the music. Am I the shallowest person alive to be worried she’ll cancel my scholarship?”
Ellie closed her eyes. “I don’t think it’s shallow of you to be worried about your education—and how all of this will affect you.”
“Well, I still feel terrible,” Hannah said. “I feel like I’ve let you down, too. But at the same time, I can’t help hoping that you’re wrong about what happened to Eden.”
“I hope I’m wrong, too,” Ellie said. She heard a call-waiting click on the phone and glanced at the screen: O’Hurley, Robert.
“Well, that didn’t take long,” she muttered. Then she cleared her throat. “Listen, Hannah, I need to take this call. Can we talk tomorrow?”
“Yeah, sure, no problem,” she murmured. “Listen, take care, okay?”
“You too—and thanks for calling.” Ellie switched off and picked up the incoming call. She got to her feet. “Hello, Father O’Hurley. I’ve been expecting to hear from you. I understand you had a long talk with the O’Rourkes tonight . . .”
She moved to the counter and poured herself that glass of wine.
“Ms. Goodwin, I don’t usually call teachers this late in the evening,” he said. “And I’ve never dismissed a teacher over the phone before. But in your case, I’m making an exception. If you report to Lombard Hall tomorrow morning at eight-thirty, someone from campus security will escort you to your office so you can clean out your desk and hand over your keys.”
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Wednesday, September 23, 6:18 P.M.
Hannah sat in the backseat of the Uber car with a bouquet of flowers she’d bought for Ellie at the Jewel-Osco. It was her pathetic apology/condolence token for helping get Ellie fired.
She’d shown up to journalism class at Lombard Hall this afternoon, only to find a note on the door saying classes were canceled for the remainder of the week. Practically all the other students from the class were there in the hallway—with the strange exception of Nick Jensen. Hannah overheard someone say that Ellie had been “shit-canned,” and they would have a new instructor on Monday. Apparently, the announcement was on an automatic reply on Ellie’s school email.
Hannah checked, sending a quick email to Ellie: Have you been fired?
Sure enough, she received an automatic reply:
Ellie Goodwin is no longer at Our Lady of the Cove and cannot be reached at this email address. Emails cannot be forwarded. Written correspondences addressed to Ms. Goodwin at the university will be forwarded for a limited time only. All written correspondences should be sent to:
Ellie Goodwin
9203 Larkdale Road #3
Lake Forest, IL 60022
From everything her parents had said about their conversation with Father O’Hurley, Hannah had thought that Ellie might get reprimanded. But she hadn’t expected Ellie to get the ax. And it seemed so careless of the university to give out Ellie’s home address on their email server. Didn’t they know about all the threats and hate mail she had received because of her reporting on those arsonists? Ellie had mentioned it in class.
Hannah sent her a text, asking what had happened, and if she was okay.
Ellie’s text back was brief:
I’m fine, just overwhelmed right now. Hope UR OK. We’ll talk tonight.
Hannah called her mother and told her that Ellie had been fired—probably because of them. Wasn’t there anything they could do to persuade Father O’Hurley to give Ellie back her job?
“Oh, honey, I really don’t think we’re to blame,” her mother said. “And I don’t know what we can do or say on her behalf. We’re the parents of a couple of charity scholarship students at that school. We don’t have much clout there at all. The Bonners are the ones with all the influence. And from what you’ve told me, they’re not exactly fans of Ellie Goodwin.”
With journalism class canceled, Hannah went back to the bungalow. Rachel was home. Hannah told her the news about Ellie.
“Well, that’s too bad,” Rachel remarked, slouched on their living room sofa with a laptop at her side. “I know you like her, but to be perfectly honest, I always thought it was weird—a thirty-something woman getting all palsy-walsy with her eighteen-year-old student. I couldn’t help thinking she was trying to get a news story out of you because you were such a big deal a couple of years ago. And I still hate the idea that she knows we’re sisters . . .”
“Yeah, well, about that,” Hannah said, her stomach in knots. She sat down in the chair across from her. “I’ve been meaning to tell you. My dad got the paternity test results—”
“Forget it,” Rachel cut her off.
“What do you mean?” Hannah asked, wide-eyed.
“You just said, ‘my father,’ not ‘our father,’ and you didn’t even stop to correct yourself.” Rachel gave an off-hand shrug, like it didn’t matter. “Obviously, the test came back negative.”
Hannah reluctantly nodded.
“My parents said that would happen. I’ve already scouted out some clinics, and there’s a place in Lake Bluff. The two of us can go in there, get tested, and have the results in twenty-four to forty-eight hours. It’ll prove we’re sisters. I don’t have anything going on this afternoon. And now that your journalism class is canceled, you’re free, too, right? What do you say we go get tested right now?”
So Perry drove them to a rather posh clinic in Lake Bluff. A nurse took a swab sample from the inside of Hannah’s and Rachel’s cheeks. They said they’d have the results by Friday at the latest.
On the way back, Hannah had asked Perry to drop her off at the Jewel-Osco. She’d decided to buy Ellie some flowers and go check in on her.
Hannah hated siding with everyone else who thought Ellie’s copycat killer theory was irresponsible, panic-inducing nonsense. But she didn’t want to think of Eden locked up in some lunatic’s backyard tool shed. She didn’t want to think the same psycho had been in her bedroom, collecting Eden’s things and leaving that note. She hated the idea that this same guy still had Eden’s keys and could break into the bungalow any time he wanted.
Though she’d made up her mind to discount Ellie’s copycat killer hypothesis, Hannah refused to discount Ellie—no matter what everyone else said about her. Hannah wanted to show her teacher and friend that she cared and supported her.
Hannah noticed the street sign as the Uber car was turning down Larkdale. She smelled the bouquet she’d bought for Ellie and started to check the address numbers of the houses.
The driver slowed down as they approached a row of two-story, brick townhouses. A system of water sprinklers showered the well-manicured front lawn. Hannah could see the address in front, and it was Ellie’s complex. She could also see someone ambling up a walkway to the doorway marked 3.
“Could you stop here, please?” Hannah asked the driver.
He stopped in front of Ellie’s neighbor
’s townhouse.
It was just starting to get dark, and Hannah couldn’t quite see the face of the tall man approaching Ellie’s door. He had an overnight bag in one hand, and in the other, a plastic bag that looked like it held carry-out food. He set down the overnight bag and rang the bell.
The front light went on. That was when Hannah recognized Nick Jensen.
She watched the front door open. Ellie greeted him with a hug. Then Nick Jensen picked up his overnight bag and she led him inside. The door closed.
Hannah didn’t understand. Nick Jensen was the guy Ellie didn’t like or trust. At the pool last week, Ellie had warned her about him. This was the same creep who had told Alden, “I’m watching you.” The sound of his voice had made Hannah’s skin crawl. And here was Ellie, acting like they were old friends or lovers. Were the two of them in on something together, some sort of scheme? Was everyone right about her?
And she thought Ellie was so open and honest with her.
“Ah, listen, I—I’ve changed my mind,” Hannah said. “Could you turn around and take me back to Delmar? I need to go to the Our Lady of the Cove campus, Saint Agnes Village . . .”
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Wednesday, 7:11 P.M.
Sitting across from Nate at the café table in her kitchen, Ellie wondered once again about his intentions for tonight.
He’d brought over the Chinese dinner they’d just eaten. Seven mostly full carryout containers were lined up on her counter. She’d be eating Chinese for the next few days.
Tonight was the fiftieth anniversary of Valerie Toomey’s murder. Toomey was the thirty-three-year-old teacher at Blessed Heart of Mary strangled by Lyle Duncan Wheeler—the third victim in the Immaculate Conception killings. Ellie remembered the picture of Valerie’s corpse from the crime scene photos in the Tribune archives: a black-and-white shot of a slim brunette, in a terrycloth bathrobe, lying on her side on her kitchen floor. Wheeler had used the bathrobe sash to strangle her.
The Bad Sister Page 33
