The Bad Sister

Sitting in the front seat of her parked Toyota, Ellie watched Nick Jensen’s apartment building across the street. For the last ten minutes, she’d been keeping her eyes on the front window of his second-floor unit. The curtains were open. It was just starting to get dark. The streetlights were on. She could see a light was on in his apartment, too. But from where she sat, she couldn’t tell if anyone was home.

She’d called Hannah to check in with her. According to Hannah, she and Alden had gotten an outside table at Campus Grounds with an unobstructed view of everyone coming and going from O’Leary Hall. Alden had his phone with him—in case Jensen called to cancel or anything. They would phone her once they spotted him heading into the dorm—and then again, when they saw him leaving.

It occurred to Ellie while she waited that Jensen might not even be home right now. He could have just left the light on. Maybe he was out on another appointment and planned to leave from there for O’Leary Hall. Instead of wasting valuable time sitting here in the car, waiting for him to appear, she could be in his apartment, searching the place.

She glanced at her wristwatch. He should have left for O’Leary Hall by now. It took about twenty minutes to get to the campus from here.

Ellie decided to give it five more minutes, and then she’d go up there and try to peek through the window. Her stomach rumbled, and she could feel herself perspiring. What if the stupid key wasn’t in the flower box? she thought, then this whole thing would be for nothing.

She saw his window curtains shut. A moment later, the door opened.

Ellie slouched down behind the wheel and watched as Jensen carried his folded-up massage table out of the apartment. He was dressed in black shorts, a gray T-shirt, and a gray sweatshirt, unzipped in front. He shut the door behind him, gave it a twist to check it, and then carried the table down the walkway to the stairs.

She watched him lug the contraption across the parking lot. He glanced around a couple of times—almost as if he thought someone was watching him. Ellie slumped even lower in the seat. Could it be he knew he was being set up?

He loaded the table in the trunk of his car, an old red Ford Fiesta. Then he looked around again and climbed into the car. After a couple of minutes, the car lights went on and he pulled out of the lot.

Ellie told herself to sit still for another sixty seconds—just in case he realized he’d forgotten something. That minute seemed to drag by. Finally, she grabbed her purse and phone and stepped out of the car. She hurried across the street to the L-shaped building. She headed up the stairs, and as she reached the top step, Ellie heard a door open. She stopped dead.

A woman emerged from another unit. She was talking on her phone. Ellie stepped aside and smiled at the woman. Without even a glance her way, Nick’s neighbor headed down the stairs. Ellie leisurely walked toward unit seventeen and knocked on the door. She knew the woman could see her from the parking lot if she bothered to look up. Ellie dug into her purse, took out her phone, and pretended to make a call. All the while, she watched the woman down in the lot. Once the woman had driven out of the lot and turned down the street, Ellie shoved the phone back in her purse. Then she glanced around and stepped over to the flower box. She lifted up the first of three small flowerpots. She didn’t see a key.

“Shit!” she hissed.

She put the pot back and tried the next pot. There it was.

She snatched up the key, put the pot back, and then, with a shaky hand, she slipped the key into the lock for unit seventeen. She heard a click and opened the door. For a moment, she held her breath, waiting for an alarm to go off.

Nothing.

Ellie put the key back under the flowerpot, and then she quickly turned around and slipped inside the apartment. Her mouth was dry and her heart raced.

The place was clean, but stark—with only a few furnishings. Everything looked like it was from Ikea. There was a sofa, and above it, the only thing on the otherwise bare beige walls—a large, unframed print of Edward Hopper’s Nighthawks. Ellie had always thought everyone in that painting looked so lonely and sad. A small TV sat on a folding table and beside that, another folding table with a computer on it and a chair. A solitary barstool was at the counter bar that divided the tiny kitchen from the living area.

Everything looked so temporary—like he hadn’t been there long and didn’t intend to stay long either.

Ellie checked the computer to see if he was still logged in. But as soon as the monitor came on, a password request appeared. She tried Nick. That didn’t work.

Then she got an idea that made her shudder. She typed in Lyle.

That didn’t work either. She decided not to push her luck and risk a third incorrect guess that would lock up the computer. She didn’t want him to know anyone had been in the apartment.

She noticed a spiral notebook by the computer, but when she opened it, there were only a couple of pages of notes he’d taken in her class—and some doodling. The rest of the notebook was blank.

On the floor, to the side of the sofa, she noticed two books—both from the university’s library: East of Eden by John Steinbeck and The Cider House Rules by John Irving. Ellie made a mental note to check later with the library to find out if the books had been checked out or stolen.

She detected a pleasant, subtle spicy-musky scent from one of the two rooms off the small hallway. She switched on the light in the bathroom. It was tidy, but the light fixture and the cheap, pressed-wood cabinet looked outdated. She opened up the medicine chest, but didn’t see any prescription bottles amid the toothpaste and other toiletries. She’d been hoping to find out if he went by another name.

The pleasing aroma came from the room next door. It was also the homiest room in the place. There were two comfortable-looking chairs and a handsome dresser with a phone port and speakers and a couple of sleek glass candleholders on top of it. A standing oscillating fan stood in the corner. A dark curtain covered the window. Two framed Jackson Pollock prints hung on the walls. Ellie realized that this was where he gave massages. There was a big gap in the middle of the room where he must have had the massage table set up when not on house calls. She wondered where he slept.

She opened the dresser drawers and found neatly folded sheets and towels—along with an array of lotions and bottles of essential oils. Peeking behind the dresser and underneath, she didn’t discover anything he was hiding. She didn’t have much luck in the closet either. His limited wardrobe was nice and conservative, except for the one Hawaiian shirt she didn’t like. The shelf along the top held a couple of sweaters and nothing else. There were no mysterious boxes or storage bins—just a laundry bag with some sheets and clothing in it.

Heading back into the living room, Ellie lifted the seat cushions on the sofa. Nothing was hidden there—except the sofa bed. Now, at least she knew where he slept.

She was checking under the couch when her phone rang. It was too soon for Jensen to have made it to the campus already. Ellie grabbed the phone out of her purse and checked the caller’s name on the screen: O’Hurley, Robert.

It took her only a moment to realize why Father O’Hurley was calling. Obviously, Detective Castino had contacted him because she was being a pain in the ass. “Well, that didn’t take long,” she muttered to herself, shoving the phone back in her bag.

Finding nothing hidden in the living room, she looped around the counter bar and checked the kitchen cupboards. Jensen certainly had a healthy diet—not a bag of chips or candy in sight. On the top shelf, she saw a big box of Honey Nut Cheerios and a large container of Quaker Oats. The Quaker Oats container seemed like the ideal hiding place for a gun, a computer file, or even some rolled-up documents. On her tiptoes, she reached up and grabbed the Quaker Oats. She opened the container. It was about half-full—with Quaker Oats. She even shook the oats around, but nothing was hidden at the bottom of the container.

Frowning, she put the Quaker Oats back on the shelf and reached for the Honey Nut Cheerios. The box was too heavy for cereal. The top flaps on the box were worn and slightly frayed—as if they’d been opened and closed repeatedly and for a long time. She opened the flaps and found the cereal box stuffed with papers. Ellie carefully pulled them out. There were three manila folders full of documents. Ellie thought she might find a collection of grisly photos like the ones she’d just seen in that file at the Tribune’s library.

In the first folder, on top of a stack of papers, was a printout of Hannah’s Instagram page—with a selfie of her and Rachel Bonner eating pizza:

My new favorite pizza place is Bellini’s in Delmar! Best. Pizza. Ever. #gobellinis #carbfeast #cantgetenoughpizza

The rest of the folder was full of printouts of other social media posts from Hannah, along with newspaper clippings and stories about her and Eden.

It looked like Jensen was obsessed with the two of them.

Ellie flipped through the next folder. It was the thickest of the three, crammed with printouts and clippings about Rachel Bonner and her parents.

The third folder was the thinnest—just a few pieces of paper. Ellie stared at what was on top of the papers: a newspaper clipping with the headline

SHEBOYGAN GIRL DIES IN BICYCLE ACCIDENT

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

“Shit,” he said, pulling over to the side of the road.

He was about halfway between his apartment and the campus.

He didn’t have a good feeling about the massage appointment with this Patrick Murphy kid. First, most of his clients were adults. This was a student at the university, and the kid wanted the massage to take place in his dorm room at O’Leary Hall. A noisy dormitory for boys hardly seemed like the ideal setting for a massage session. And how many students could afford to drop a hundred dollars for a massage? It seemed like a setup. Somebody was punking somebody else—and at his expense, too.

On his phone, he found a number for O’Leary Hall. Though he figured he’d get a recording, he gave it a try anyway.

A man answered: “O’Leary Hall, front desk.”

“Hi, yeah, I have a pizza delivery for Patrick Murphy in room four-oh-three. I just want to make sure he’s in.”

“Let me check for you. Hold on a sec.”

While he waited, a few cars passed him on the road.

“Hello?” The desk clerk came back on the line. “Jim Munchel and Anthony Wingarter are in room four-oh-three, and neither one of them ordered a pizza.”

“Thanks,” he said, frowning.

He clicked off the line, glanced in his rearview mirror, and started to turn the car around.

* * *

“Would you relax?” Alden said. “He couldn’t possibly trace this to you.”

At their outside table at Campus Grounds, Hannah sat facing the quad and the front entrance to O’Leary Hall across the way. The men’s dorm was one of the more modern buildings on campus—a cold-looking, five-story, concrete-and-glass structure. But the entryway was well lit, and she could see people coming and going.

Night had fallen, and Hannah felt a slight chill creeping through the air. She sipped her decaf latte and nervously rubbed her arms. “Ellie and I didn’t think everything through when we asked you to do this,” she said. “This Jensen guy knows me. I’ve posted pictures of Rachel and me on Instagram. And through Rachel, he could easily link you to me.”

Alden put his hand on top of hers. Hannah felt a pleasant little rush.

“Don’t sweat it, okay?” He smiled. “Have you seen me in any of Rachel’s social media posts? Like I told you yesterday, Richard and Candace Bonner’s girl does not associate with the help. My name isn’t linked with Rachel’s anywhere. So we’re safe. Plus I have my phone under my middle name—Patrick. It helps me screen the unsolicited calls. I also gave the guy a bad room number. There are three other Murphys in that piece-of-shit dorm, and by the time he goes through the three of them and gets to Alden Murphy, I’ll just deny, deny, deny. Easy breezy. And you don’t have to look for him yet. Our appointment isn’t until six-thirty. We have another ten minutes . . .”

Alden’s words were reassuring. And he still had his hand on hers, which was even more comforting. Just the same, Hannah kept looking over at the quad and O’Leary Hall.

“We’re not going to miss him,” Alden said. “He’ll be easy to spot. He said he was bringing his massage table.”

“Well, don’t you two look cozy?”

Hannah glanced up at Rachel, standing by their table. With a straw, she sipped some iced coffee concoction in a clear, tall, plastic glass.

Alden pulled his hand away.

She sat down with them. “Don’t mind me. Has Mr. Rub-a-Dub-Dub shown up yet?”

“Not yet,” Hannah said nervously.

Alden smiled at her again. “Relax,” he whispered. Then he looked at Rachel. “Where were you?”

“Talking with the parental units,” she sighed. She turned to Hannah. “I finally opened up the FedEx package. As promised, your father—our father—had his doctor send me a DNA kit. It came with very easy, very impersonal instructions. I’m to spit in a vial and stick the vial inside a special envelope and take it to the FedEx office, all pre-paid. Wasn’t that thoughtful of our dear dad?”

Hannah felt so ashamed. “I’m sorry, Rachel. Like I tried to explain the other night, they’ve had so many false alarms—”

“Yeah, well, I’m not some stranger pulling a hoax. I’m your roommate. I’m the one who...” She trailed off.

“You’re the one who paid for my scholarship,” Hannah finished for her. “Eden’s scholarship, too.”

“Not that she’s getting much use out of it this week,” Rachel muttered. She patted Hannah’s shoulder. “Listen, forget it. I didn’t really mean to go there with the scholarship thing. That’s my parents talking.”

“And how are Dick and Candy?” Alden asked.

“Peachy,” she answered, frowning. She sipped her iced coffee drink. “They were all up my ass about this paternity test. They don’t want me to take it. They said it’s beneath me. My dad says that . . .” She turned to Hannah, “He says that our dad will only arrange things with his doctor to fudge the test so it’ll look like I’m not really his daughter . . .”

“I don’t think he’d do that,” Hannah said. She took a quick glance over toward the quad and the dorm again. “He just needs to make certain . . .”

Rachel didn’t seem to be listening. “My mom was all, ‘Why do you even want anything to do with him? He’s given you absolutely nothing.’ And blah, blah, blah. They asked me not to take the test until they’ve talked to me in person. They want me to come home and spend the night on Saturday. I told them, fine.” She nudged Hannah under the table. “Listen, would you like to come with?”

Hannah hesitated. “Are you kidding? I’m from the enemy camp.”

“My parents have nothing against you.”

“Well, are you sure they wouldn’t mind?”

Rachel rolled her eyes. “Oh, please, they won’t even know you’re there. It’ll be fun . . .”

“Believe me,” Alden interjected. “When you see how big the house is, you’ll know she isn’t kidding.”

“It’s settled, you’re sleeping over Saturday night,” Rachel said. “Besides, if Eden doesn’t come back before the weekend, I’d hate to leave you alone here. I mean, what with all this weirdness going on right now. Plus that place is creepy when you’re alone there at night . . .”

“Wait a minute,” Alden said, looking toward the quad. “I think I see our guy . . .”

Hannah followed his gaze. “That’s not Nick Jensen. And the man’s carrying a painting and an easel.”

“Put your glasses on, stupid,” Rachel said.

Alden’s phone rang. Sitting up, he pulled the phone out of his pocket and gaped at the screen. “It’s him,” he whispered.

“Put it on speaker,” Rachel said.

He took a deep breath and touched the screen. “Hello?”

With a hand over her mouth, Hannah stared at him.

“You gave me the wrong room number, Patrick,” Nick Jensen said evenly.

Alden seemed stumped. “Um, really? Gosh, I’m sorry. Where are you?”

“More important, where are you right now? We have an appointment.”

“Yeah, I know.” Alden gave Hannah a helpless look. “Listen, I’m sorry, but something came up, and I can’t make it. I meant to call you—”

“I know what you’re up to,” Jensen said. “I’m watching you right now.”

“What?” Alden asked.

Hannah heard a click.

“Oh, fuck me,” Alden whispered. Wide-eyed, he stared at the phone.

“God, do you think he really means it?” Rachel asked.

Panic-stricken, Hannah glanced around. But there were just too many people, all the buildings with windows, all those bushes and trees, too many places where he could be hiding.

“Call Ellie,” she said. “We need to call her right now. Tell her what just happened . . .”

* * *

“He obviously knows he’s been set up,” Hannah urgently whispered on the other end of the line. “He said he’s watching us now, but—well, I think we’ll be okay. We’re headed over to the bungalow. Rachel has a bodyguard, and she just called him. He’s on his way. He’ll be here in, like, five minutes. He’ll stay with the three of us. Rachel says he’ll stay with us all night if he has to.”

“Good,” Ellie said. She stood over Nick Jensen’s kitchen counter with his files spread out in front of her. “Listen, tell Alden and Rachel I’m sorry I got them into this—”

“It’s okay!” she heard Alden yell in the background. “Just get out of there!”

“He’s right,” Hannah said. “Finish up and get out of there.”

“Will do,” Ellie answered. “By the way, I found some stuff. It’s very interesting. I’ll tell you about it later.”

“Call us as soon as you’re safe and in your car, okay?”

“Okay. Bye.” Ellie hung up. Her hands were shaking as she tried to put all the paperwork from Nick Jensen’s files back in order.

Amid the clippings, printouts, and scribbled notes, she hadn’t found anything about the Immaculate Conception murders from fifty years ago. There was nothing about Diana either. But he was clearly obsessed with Rachel Bonner, her family, and her roommates. She’d found detailed notes from discussions he’d had with Hannah and Eden. But Ellie couldn’t quite decipher them because of his penmanship and all the abbreviations.

She wished she had more time to go over everything, maybe even take some photos of his notes, but she couldn’t risk hanging around there any longer.

She heard a car in the parking lot outside. Her heart racing, Ellie hurried to the window and moved the curtain a tiny bit—just enough to peek down at the lot. It was one of Jensen’s neighbors. She watched a station wagon pull out of the lot and onto the street.

Ellie told herself that it was too soon for Jensen to have already returned from the campus—unless he was lying to Alden on the phone. Was he really watching Hannah, Alden, and Rachel—or was he just trying to intimidate them? Ellie hated the idea that she may have put Hannah and her friends in danger.

She was about to move away from the window when she spotted the red Ford Fiesta already parked in the lot—the same spot Jensen had been in before.

It looked like the car was empty.

Ellie heard someone coming up the outside stairs.

Backing away from the window, she helplessly looked around for some place to hide—or something she could use as a weapon.

She froze at the sound of the key in the door.

There was a click, and then the door opened. From the threshold, Nick Jensen glared at her.

Ellie couldn’t move or talk. Standing in the middle of his living room, she gaped back at him. He was blocking the exit.

“What are you doing?” he asked finally. “Is someone else here with you?”

She shook her head.

“So what the hell are you doing in my apartment?” He stepped inside and shut the door behind him.

Ellie swallowed hard. “Why do you have files on Rachel Bonner and the O’Rourke sisters—and that girl who died?”

He didn’t answer. He looked over toward the papers spread across his kitchen counter.

“What have you done with Eden O’Rourke?” Ellie dared to ask.

“Nothing,” he replied, still standing by the closed door. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his sweatshirt. “I ran into her at the Sunnyside Up Café last Friday night and haven’t seen her since.”

“No one has seen her since,” Ellie said.

He let out a sigh. “I had a bad feeling that was the case. Her sister told me yesterday afternoon that Eden went off by herself to Chicago for a while. But the way Hannah acted when she talked to me, I wasn’t sure what to think . . .”

Ellie warily studied his face. Was his concern real— or just part of the innocent routine she’d seen him do before?

She was still scared, but impatient, too. She frowned at him. “I’ll ask you again. Why do you have files on those girls? Why do Eden O’Rourke’s whereabouts matter to you?”

“Because Eden is Rachel Bonner’s roommate,” he said. “And that’s not a good thing to be. Last year, Rachel’s roommate, a girl named Kayla, was going to help me when she suddenly met up with a fatal accident . . .”

Ellie kept staring at him. In his track shorts, T-shirt, and open sweatshirt, it didn’t look like he was carrying any concealed weapons. He hadn’t attacked her or even threatened her yet, and he easily could have. “Who are you?” she asked. “Is Nick Jensen even your real name?”

He didn’t answer. Wincing, he rubbed his forehead. Then he walked past her to his refrigerator and opened it up. “Would you like a beer? I could sure use one. I also have bottled water in here, a Sprite, and a couple of Cokes.”

“Never mind that,” Ellie said. Her heart was still racing. “Why did you enroll in my journalism class?”

“Because Hannah O’Rourke tweeted about it over the summer,” he replied, taking out a beer and a bottle of water. Then he shut the refrigerator door with his elbow. He handed her the water. “Here. Let me know if you’d like something livelier. In her tweet, Hannah said she was looking forward to taking your class, and they were making a movie about you. She mentioned that Eden was taking the same class. I figured, if I took your course, I’d have a good chance of getting to know at least one of them.”

“Why is it so important to know the O’Rourke girls?” Ellie asked.

“Because in an earlier tweet, Hannah said she and Eden were going to be roommates with Rachel Bonner. And that interested me very much.” He walked over to his sofa and sat down.

Ellie narrowed her eyes at him. “Why? I don’t understand any of this . . .”

He opened his beer. “Well, first off, you’re right. Nick Jensen isn’t my real name.” He let out a dazed little laugh. “Jesus, after two years, it sounds weird to hear myself actually saying that to somebody.”

He raised his beer can as if toasting her. “My name’s Nate Bergquist. I’m from Portland, Oregon, Ms. Goodwin. And I’m supposed to be dead . . .”