The Bad Sister

by Kevin O'Brien

  Ellie could see all the swirling, flashing lights from the police cars and the ambulance in the driveway. They illuminated a walkway along the side of the dilapidated house.

  Ellie put her arm around Eden. Leaning on each other, they started up the path together.

  EPILOGUE

  Monday, September 28, 2:40 P.M.

  Hannah’s mother, Sheila O’Rourke, waited nearly two hours in the lobby of Northwestern Memorial Hospital before she was allowed to visit her niece.

  Along with her husband, Sheila had caught an early flight from Seattle to Chicago on Saturday. They’d been bombarded by reporters at both Sea-Tac and O’Hare. Of course, Dylan and she weren’t strangers to this type of media frenzy. They’d been through it all two years ago.

  They’d reserved a family suite at the Residence Inn in Lake Bluff, where they took Eden after she got an all-clear from the medical staff at Northwestern. Management at the inn did a pretty remarkable job keeping the press out of the lobby.

  It was almost surreal to see Hannah and Eden getting along so well. Just five weeks ago, the two of them could barely tolerate each other. Now they seemed to cherish one another. Suddenly, they had a mutual love and respect that was startling to see.

  “Let’s enjoy it while we can, hon,” Dylan pointed out to her.

  The transformation Hannah had gone through was astonishing, too. When she’d left Seattle a month ago, she’d been a moody, sarcastic, self-centered, phone-obsessed teen. She’d acted as if she’d been cursed to be part of their family. And of course, Sheila, in Hannah’s thinking, had existed only to feed her, do her laundry, and embarrass her whenever they stepped out in public together.

  But then, on Saturday, when they were reunited, Hannah cried and hugged her so fiercely Sheila thought she might break. Eden, who had always been so independent and slightly aloof, was almost as clingy and affectionate as Hannah.

  The girls shared a room in the hotel suite. So, by Sunday night, they were back to snapping at each other and bickering. But something had definitely changed between them. They acted more like sisters than half-sisters.

  Every time any of them left the hotel, they were mobbed by the press—especially the girls. Sheila and Dylan were in the spotlight, too. It seemed that people hadn’t forgotten the events of two years before.

  But from what Sheila saw on TV, in the newspapers, and online, they had it easy compared to Richard and Candace Bonner, who were the epicenter of the media circus. Traffic along Lake Shore Drive downtown had to be rerouted to avoid the crushing media mob-scene in front of the Bonners’ mansion. As accusations of murder and a cover-up mounted against them, neither one of the Bonners would comment to the press.

  From all the recent news articles Sheila read, there was every indication that Candace Bonner had pushed Sheila’s sister, Molly, off the roof of their mother’s apartment building in Portland twenty years ago. It was that, or Candace had had a bodyguard do the pushing for her.

  Sheila remembered the articles she’d read back then, in the wake of Molly’s death, articles suggesting she may have pushed her own sister off that roof. Part of Sheila felt incensed that she’d been blamed for something Candace Bonner had done. But another part of her decided to reserve judgment until there was an official inquiry, which certainly seemed forthcoming.

  For all Sheila knew, it may have been Candace or her husband who had finally cleared her with the hospital staff.

  A policewoman escorted her up to the ICU, where two guards were on duty. The policewoman checked Sheila’s purse and her bag. And after asking her permission, she even patted her down. Finally, Sheila was allowed into Rachel Bonner’s private room.

  From all the flowers on display in the room, no one would have ever guessed that the patient was already implicated in several murders—as were her parents.

  A chubby nurse was checking something on one of the monitors hooked up to Rachel, who was propped up in the bed, unconscious.

  She’d had major surgery on Saturday to repair extensive damage to her stomach, liver, and intestines. In addition to the IV in her arm, Rachel had an endotracheal tube in her mouth, attached to a respirator.

  But Sheila still recognized her kid sister, Molly, in this sleeping girl, and it made her heart ache. Sheila’s eyes welled with tears.

  The nurse gave her a perfunctory smile. Sheila smiled back, and then she found a spot on the dresser for the vase of flowers. She took the slightly tattered stuffed monkey out of the bag and set it on Rachel’s nightstand. Micky the Monkey had originally been Sheila’s when she was a child, but then Molly had taken it over and made it hers—which was so like Molly. Apparently, she’d made certain the stuffed monkey accompanied her infant daughter when she’d given her up to the Bonners. Sheila was pretty amazed the Bonners had actually kept it—and she wondered if Richard Bonner had had a soft spot for Molly. Rachel had left the monkey for Dylan two years ago, when she’d thought he was her father and he’d been in the hospital.

  Now Sheila was giving Micky the Monkey back to Rachel. She figured her poor, screwed-up niece could use an old friend at her side for the hard times ahead.

  Sheila gently touched her cheek. She kept thinking about how Molly was nearly the same age when she’d died. Sheila stood there just a minute or two. Then she wiped away her tears, took a deep breath, and stepped away.

  “She’s been on and off the tube,” the nurse said. “She’ll probably be awake in a couple of hours. Do you want me to tell her you stopped by?”

  Sheila shook her head. “That’s okay. I probably won’t be back.”

  “Don’t you want her to know who left the monkey?”

  “She’ll know,” Sheila replied. She smiled at the nurse. “But thanks.”

  Then she quietly walked out of the hospital room.

  Friday, October 9, 6:17 P.M.

  Ellie stepped off the commuter train in Lake Forest and ran in the rain to her car.

  After she switched on the windshield wipers and started for home, she realized she might actually eat dinner before eight o’clock—for a change. She’d finished up early at the Tribune tonight. She’d been working late every night for the last two weeks.

  So much had happened, she could hardly keep up. The bodies of Eden’s “first kidnappers” had been discovered, rotting away in a locker at a U-Store-It facility in North Chicago. They’d been identified as career criminals with links to Donald Sloane.

  Rachel’s bodyguard, Perry, immediately caved under police questioning, and he implicated Sloane and his cohorts in the plot to abduct Eden O’Rourke. Sloane had viewed her as a “liability.” Perry also blamed Sloane for ordering the “accidental” death of Kayla Kennedy, another “liability.”

  Apparently, Sloane was as paranoid as he was ruthless. Perry had heard about other cover-up murders Sloane had ordered—including that of Candace Bonner’s former assistant, Marcia Lindahl, and the Portland private investigator, Gil Bergquist. Perry told the police that on Friday night, he’d been instructed to “detain or dispose of ” Ellie Goodwin because of her association with Nate Bergquist.

  The following day, Perry recanted all his statements to the police, claiming he’d given them inaccurate information due to his “crippling head injuries” and “a form of PTSD.” Then, later in the week, when it was clear that Sloane’s firm planned to throw him under the bus, Perry recanted his recantation.

  There was so much finger-pointing, in-fighting, and betrayal among the Bonner-Sloane allegiance, it now seemed on the verge of imploding.

  Ellie kept busy at the newspaper covering “Bonner-gate,” as it was now known. When she wasn’t writing about the criminal charges being hurled at Candace and Richard, she wrote about the serial murders planned and hatched by their daughter, Rachel, still in the hospital after two more surgeries.

  Our Lady of the Cove officially invited Ellie back to teach. Father O’Hurley was transferred to a parish outside Butte, Montana, and a layperson was hastily brought in to replace h
im. Ellie told the administration she’d consider returning next semester.

  Her agent was fielding offers from publishing houses and film companies. The money was outrageous.

  She wasn’t the only one being wooed by the publishing houses and Hollywood. Nate had received offers for the rights to his story.

  And someone else was after Nate: the Internal Revenue Service.

  For a while, he’d been looking at a possible six years in prison and a $200,000 fine for failing to file his tax returns for two years in a row. Ellie had helped him get a pair of good attorneys, and they were working out a deal. He would get probation. And he probably wouldn’t see much of his movie or book money. Most of it would go to the IRS and attorney fees.

  “That’s fine,” Nate told her. “I never expected to make any profit on this venture. Considering that I ended up meeting you during all this, I think I came out way ahead.”

  Between her work and Nate’s going back to school to get his physical therapist license renewed, they didn’t see each other as much as she would have liked. But they talked practically every night.

  Ellie pulled up in front of her townhouse.

  The front window had been repaired, which was fortunate—especially on rainy nights like this. She climbed out of the car, opened her umbrella, and made a mad dash for the door.

  Inside, the living room still had a slight new-carpet /new-paintjob smell. But it looked nice. There was no sign of any fire damage.

  She put down her umbrella, peeled off her trench coat, and wandered into the kitchen. Taking her phone from her purse, she called Nate.

  “Hey, you,” he answered.

  “If you come over here tonight and give me a foot rub, I’ll cook you dinner and let you choose the movie.”

  “Would you like me to pick up some takeout instead? Chinese? You’ll still get the foot rub . . .”

  “God, I love you,” she said.

  “I love you, too, you know,” he replied. “See you in an hour.”

  Then he hung up.

  Sunday, November 22, 1:58 P.M.

  From the commuter train, Hannah took a bus and got off at the Northridge stop. She had only three blocks to walk to her destination.

  In addition to her purse, Hannah carried a bulky tote bag. She’d bundled up warmly. She was learning to adapt to the Chicago weather. It was twenty degrees and windy. The weatherman had predicted six inches of snow tonight.

  It would soon be too cold to make this trip.

  As she forged through the chilly wind, Hannah hoped the snow wouldn’t screw up her travel plans. She and Eden were due to take off for Seattle on Wednesday afternoon for Thanksgiving break. It was kind of an expensive trip for only four days, but worth every penny. She yearned to be home again, see her mom, dad, and her brothers, be in her own bedroom again, and eat her mom’s cooking.

  She felt so much older since the last time she’d been home—just three months ago.

  She and Eden were still at Our Lady of the Cove. Even though the Bonners and their security specialist had been charged with murder and about fifty other crimes and misdemeanors, the scholarship was all paid up. It would be the last one given out in the Bonners’ name.

  After a monthlong struggle and several surgeries, Rachel had died of liver failure on Halloween. When it had happened, Hannah and Eden had heard the jokes circulating around campus about the ironic timing.

  Neither one of them wanted to stay on at the bungalow. They ended up in different rooms on the same floor at O’Donnell Hall, a perfect arrangement. They often ate in the cafeteria together or hung out in the evenings. Eden liked to go into Chicago and “explore” whenever she could. But now, she always told Hannah where she was headed. And most of the time, she answered texts.

  They’d each had guys they were interested in, but no one special. They’d made a lot of friends in the dorm. And both of them were wise enough to keep their distance from the kids who just wanted to know the notorious O’Rourke sisters for the sheer novelty of it.

  Hannah could see her breath as she passed by the wrought iron fence. She turned at the open gate. Beside it was a large sign: NORTHRIDGE PARK MEMORIAL CEMETERY. It was a non-denominational graveyard.

  There had been a lot of fuss about burying Alden beside his mother in a Catholic cemetery, because he was a murderer. Hannah had no idea who arranged for him to be buried here. But it was where he ended up—with a very plain tombstone.

  She knew how to find it. This was her fourth visit to the cemetery.

  Once she was in the general area, it was hard to miss the grave. Though the tombstone was plain, it had been defaced.

  The words were scrawled on the stone in Magic Marker or paint—almost obscuring his name and the years of his birth and death:

  Hannah got down on her knees in front of the tombstone. The cold, hard ground immediately began to chill her legs. Setting down the tote bag, she took out the rubber gloves and put them on over her cold hands. She took out the turpentine, the scrub brush, and the rags. Then she went to work.

  Hannah understood why so many people were angry at him.

  But she cleaned off the bad words anyway.