The Bad Sister. Kevin O'Brien
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died in an apparent suicide. Are you following me so far?”
“I think so,” Jeanne said with uncertainty.
“Anyway, Dylan didn’t even know he had a daughter. It was a big surprise for everyone. With Cassandra gone and the mother dead, the girl had no place to go. So after making her take a paternity test, Dylan and his wife—who was either a saint or a total doormat—took the girl in. This Eden is only a few months older than their daughter Hannah. Apparently, she turned everyone’s lives upside down—and not in a zany, cute Parent Trap way either. The whole situation was more like Psycho than any Disney movie.”
Jeanne’s eyes widened. “What happened? You mentioned a murder . . .”
“Turned out Eden’s mother hadn’t committed suicide after all. She’d been killed by Cassandra. The two were more like lethal frenemies than friends. Cassandra was obsessed with Dylan. She killed a couple of other women, who had both slept with him. Then she tried to kill Dylan’s wife and one of Hannah’s younger brothers, too. I forget the wife’s first name. This crazy woman shot Dylan while he was driving his car, and he crashed into a tree. The accident definitely changed his looks. Depending on who you talk to, it’s up for grabs just how much he deserved getting his handsome face messed up. I feel a lot sorrier for the wife and his kids. Apparently, the wife had a sister who committed suicide years and years before—and the sister might have slept with the husband, too. At least, it was intimated in some of the reports. The whole thing was very sordid and scandalous. It was national news for several days.”
Jeanne glanced at the monitor. “The wife’s name is Sheila. It’s here as the emergency contact for both girls: Dylan and Sheila O’Rourke. And it’s a Seattle address. Looks like you’re right. Both girls are incoming freshmen.”
“Why do you suppose they’re coming all the way here to attend this little school? I mean, I know we’ve got a good reputation, but come on . . .”
“Maybe they just wanted to go to college where no one has heard of them,” Jeanne said with an arched eyebrow. “And no one will gossip about them.”
Ellie nodded sheepishly and sighed. “Okay, point taken.”
Still, as a former news reporter for the Chicago Tribune, she was naturally curious about the half-sisters. Ellie hadn’t even met the girls yet, and already, she wondered if they’d allow her to interview them. Maybe she could write a follow-up article about the half-sisters two years after being thrust into the national spotlight. Then again, perhaps Jeanne was right. They probably wanted to be left alone.
Ellie slipped the class lists into her purse. Heading out of the bursar’s office, she thanked Jeanne for her help.
“Check your email for God’s sake!” Jeanne called after her.
Ellie realized the building’s air-conditioning must have been working after all—at least somewhat—because she got a blast of hot air as she stepped out into the blazing sun. Fortunately, the trees alongside the walkways between buildings offered some shade, especially here, in the campus’s older section. It was quite pretty—with a sweeping view of Lake Michigan. The tall church tower loomed above the other rooftops on the campus. Though their architectural styles varied, all of the buildings somehow seemed to blend together harmoniously. The old brownstone housing the bursar’s office had a certain charm, and so did the women’s four-story white stucco dormitory next door—despite some signs of decay. A creek snaked through the old section of the campus, and around every corner, there was a quaint footbridge or a garden patch with a shrine or a statue of some saint.
As lovely as it was, this picturesque old section of the campus took on a sinister air at night. Woods bordered the area on two sides, and there were just too many shadowy nooks, too many places for someone to hide. Those pious saintly statues became slightly menacing once the sun went down. This part of the campus reminded Ellie of a cemetery—beautiful during the day and downright creepy at night. Or maybe she just felt that way because she knew about Our Lady of the Cove’s history—and what had happened there in 1970.
It was hard to imagine it now—with the sun shining through the trees and the birds chirping. Since school wasn’t yet in session, the place was practically deserted. Everything seemed so peaceful.
Check your email for God’s sake!
It was the last thing Ellie wanted to do. During the summer, when she’d purposely avoided her college email account, she’d actually had some days when she hadn’t been afraid. She’d slept easier at night. She’d even taken the steak knife out from between her mattress and box spring and put it back in the kitchen drawer, where it belonged.
She was going back to work in a few days. A lot of people—including everyone associated with Our Lady of the Cove—used her college email address to reach her. She couldn’t put off checking it any longer. She had her laptop in her bag.
She headed across the brick-tiled quad toward the student union—a big, ugly steel and glass monstrosity in the newer section of the campus. The attached coffee shop, Campus Grounds, was air-conditioned.
Ellie stepped inside and shuddered gratefully from the delicious chill. She was practically the only person in there. She didn’t have to wait in a line to place her order. She took her iced latte to a window table. The barista had Sting on the sound system.
With a napkin, Ellie dabbed the perspiration from her forehead. Then she pulled the laptop notebook out of her bag. Switching it on, she logged into her email account through the college, and found 772 unread emails.
“Oh spare me,” she murmured.
Sipping the iced latte to fortify herself, Ellie started weeding out all the junk mail and spam. She managed to whittle down the unread messages to sixty-three, most of them from the college’s administration office and senders whose names she didn’t recognize.
With reluctance, Ellie clicked on the first unfamiliar email name. The date was May 29, and there was no subject name.
I hope you get AIDS and die, you skanky bitch. Your whole family should get AIDS and die. Do you even have a family? I’ll bet your a lesbian, you dried-up—
Ellie didn’t read any more.
“Sweet,” she whispered, clenching the wadded-up napkin in her fist. She was sorely tempted to reply and tell them she wasn’t a lesbian, and that it’s “you’re a lesbian ,” not “your.” But the unwritten rule in cases like this was not to engage. Besides, the asshole didn’t even leave a name. So she deleted the message.
With a sigh, she moved on to the next email, also dated May 29. The sender was [email protected], and the subject line was “Your Arson Story”:
Dear Ms. Goodwin,
I have written a very, very compelling screenplay version of your newspaper coverage of all those arsons in Chicago from two years ago. I know there’s currently some film deal about that going on, but I also know that some of these film deals can go bad really quickly. I’m really hoping for you to read my screenplay (attached-152 pgs) and let me know what you think. I know, after you read it, you’ll want to talk to the people making your movie about using my brilliant screenplay. Let me know as soon as you get this, because I think the timing of this is very, very important. I do not have an agent, but I don’t think I really need one, because I’m very, very confident you will find my screenplay excellent . . .
It went on for three more paragraphs, but Ellie skipped down to the sign off: Sincerely, Nina Rumble.
“I’m very, very sorry, Nina,” she said under her breath. When she had some downtime, she’d email Nina an excuse as to why she couldn’t drop everything and read her brilliant screenplay. She tagged the email “Keep as New” and then noticed that Nina R had sent three more emails over the summer. Ellie clicked on the most recent one—from two weeks ago. The subject line was “My Screenplay”:
Dear Ms. Goodwin,
I think you are extremely rude and very, very