The Bad Sister. Kevin O'Brien

Чтение книги онлайн.

      CHAPTER THREE

      Thursday, September 3, 4:11 P.M.

      Delmar, Illinois

      “The class lists went out last week, Ellie,” said Jeanne, the clerk in the bursar’s office. She was in her early sixties with close-cropped, beige-colored hair and glasses. She stood behind the counter, where a small, dirty-looking plastic fan was blowing on her. The air-conditioning didn’t seem to be doing much good. “I really wish you’d check your email once in a while,” Jeanne added. She started typing on the keyboard in front of a computer monitor on the counter.

      “Sorry,” Ellie sighed. She had a regular Gmail account for family and friends. But she purposely hadn’t checked her university email account all summer. “I appreciate this,” she said.

      “You’re just lucky I like you,” Jeanne replied—over the sound of the printer running. “How is it out there? Still miserable?”

      “Stifling,” Ellie replied as she leaned against the counter. She pulled the strap of her bulky, cloth purse off her shoulder and lowered it to the floor. Ellie was thirty-three, but looked younger. The tan helped. She taught four different journalism classes at Our Lady of the Cove—and except for teaching one summer school class, she’d spent most of her summer goofing off: swimming in Lake Michigan and working in her garden in back of her townhouse apartment.

      Slim and pretty, she wore her shoulder-length, chestnut brown hair in a ponytail today. Since classes weren’t in session, and it was ninety-nine degrees out, she’d dressed casually in a pink-and-white-striped tee, khaki shorts, and sandals. She had her sunglasses pushed up on top of her head—a look she knew some people hated (including her dad and her ex-husband). But she was too hot and tired to care right now.

      The printer spit out three sheets of paper, and Jeanne handed them to her.

      “Thanks,” Ellie said. She glanced at the enrollment list for her Introduction to Journalism class: twenty-two students. Manageable. She scanned the names, and showed the listing to Jeanne. “I should know this, but what does this double asterisk by Jensen, Nicholas mean?”

      Jeanne squinted at the page. “He’s not a registered full-time student,” she explained. “He’s adult continuing education.”

      This was a red flag for Ellie. “Did he sign up for any other classes in the college or just my freshman journalism class?”

      The printer had churned out four more pages, and Jeanne handed those to her. “Jensen, Nicholas?” she said, pausing at the keyboard.

      Ellie nodded.

      Jeanne typed on the keyboard and checked the monitor. “Nope, just Intro to Journalism.”

      “Do you have an address for him?” Ellie asked.

      Jeanne consulted the monitor again. “Eight-twelve Sunset Ridge Road, number seventeen. Highland Park.”

      That was about fifteen minutes away. Ellie figured maybe it was just a temporary address for this Nicholas Jensen person—if that was even his real name. Then again, if someone was out to get her, would he really go to all the trouble of moving into an apartment in Highland Park and enrolling in one of her classes? It would be a hell of a lot easier just to hang around the liberal arts building, Lombard Hall, one morning. If he asked enough students, he’d eventually find out where she taught her class. Then he could just walk into her classroom and start shooting.

      Ellie told herself that she was being paranoid.

      But sometimes, it was hard not to be. That was why she’d deliberately avoided checking her college email account all summer. Too many people had access to that email address, and too many cranks were out there.

      Ellie decided Nicholas Jensen was probably just some old guy who wanted to write his memoirs. She’d had an adult continuing education student like that last year—a baggy-eyed, gray-haired, middle-aged man who thought he knew more than she did—and he didn’t hesitate to tell her so in front of the class. He was a major pain in the ass, but more or less harmless.

      Ellie glanced farther down the list of students in her freshman class. “Eden O’Rourke... Hannah O’Rourke?” she read aloud. She looked up at Jeanne. “Are they the same Eden and Hannah O’Rourke from Seattle, the half-sisters?”

      She shrugged. “Beats me. Am I supposed to know them?”

      “They were all over the news about two years ago,” Ellie explained. “It was a big story—murders, infidelities, real juicy stuff. Their father is Dylan O’Rourke. Does that ring a bell?”

      Jeanne shook her head. “O’Rourke,” she repeated as she typed on the keyboard again.

      “Dylan O’Rourke—married, father of three, extremely handsome,” Ellie explained. “If you saw his picture, you’d remember him. Quite the looker—or at least, he was. He was also a serial cheater. Two years ago, this sixteen-year-old girl, Eden, dropped in on him and his unsuspecting family. She was the result of a brief, extramarital fling Dylan had with her trampy mother. The woman dumped the baby with a friend of hers named Cassandra, who, more or less, raised Eden on her own. Then, just in time for Eden’s sweet sixteen, this Cassandra woman said she was moving away and gave Eden back to her birth mother, who months later, 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 СКАЧАТЬ