The Bad Sister Read online

  MISSING

  “You think something might have happened to Eden, and someone else sent this text?” Ellie asked.

  Hannah nodded. “You’ll think this is crazy, too. But after we talked on Friday, I went online and read about those murders here on campus fifty years ago. That fire in the laundry room the other night, it happened exactly fifty years after the girl killed her baby and set it on fire, right? Well, this other girl—her name was Crystal Juneau—she was abducted just three days after the baby-killing incident, September twelfth. I keep thinking, Eden might have been out on her own Friday night—past midnight. Saturday was the twelfth. Maybe someone abducted her on Saturday, maybe the same person who started that fire Wednesday night . . .”

  With a hand over her heart, Ellie stared at Hannah. “You think someone is copying the timetable of the Immaculate Conception Killer?” she whispered.

  Hannah sighed. “Like I said, I know it sounds crazy.”

  Not really, Ellie thought.

  Books by Kevin O’Brien

  ONLY SON

  THE NEXT TO DIE

  MAKE THEM CRY

  WATCH THEM DIE

  LEFT FOR DEAD

  THE LAST VICTIM

  KILLING SPREE

  ONE LAST SCREAM

  FINAL BREATH

  VICIOUS

  DISTURBED

  TERRIFIED

  UNSPEAKABLE

  TELL ME YOU’RE SORRY

  NO ONE NEEDS TO KNOW

  YOU’LL MISS ME WHEN I’M GONE

  HIDE YOUR FEAR

  THEY WON’T BE HURT

  HIS BETRAYED WIFE

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

  KEVIN O’BRIEN

  THE BAD SISTER

  PINNACLE BOOKS

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  MISSING

  Also by

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  EPILOGUE

  PINNACLE BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2020 Kevin O’Brien

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  PINNACLE BOOKS and the Pinnacle logo are Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  ISBN: 978-0-7860-4508-2

  Electronic edition: August 2020

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7860-4511-2 (e-book)

  ISBN-10: 0-7860-4511-6 (e-book)

  This book is for Dante & Pattie Bellini

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  As usual, topping my Thank-You list is my dear friend and editor, John Scognamiglio, who is always there to inspire and guide me. Thanks also to the brilliantly talented team at Kensington Publishing, who always have my back and continue to wow me with their dazzling work.

  Thank you to the wonderful gang at Jane Rotrosen Agency—especially Meg Ruley and Christina Hogrebe.

  Another thank-you goes to my Writers Group friends, David Massengill, Garth Stein, and Colin McArthur, for helping get this book off the ground.

  Thanks to all my Seattle 7 Writers friends, especially Dave Boling, Erica Bauermeister, Carol Cassella, Laurie Frankel, Suzanne Selfors, Jennie Shortridge, and Garth Stein.

  I’d also like to thank the following friends and groups who have been incredibly supportive: Dan Annear and Chuck Rank, Dante and Pattie (again!), Pam Binder, A Book for All Seasons, The Book Stall, Marlys Bourm, Amanda Brooks, Terry and Judine Brooks, Lynn Brunelle, George Camper and Shane White, Barbara and John Cegielski, Barbara and Jim Church, Anna Cottle and Mary Alice Kier, Paul Dwoskin, Elliott Bay Book Company, John Flick and Dan Reich, Bridget Foley and Stephen Susco, Margaret Freeman, Matt Gain, The Girls Gone Wild Reading Books, Cate Goethals and Tom Goodwin, Bob and Dana Gold, Cathy Johnson, Elizabeth Kinsella, David Korabik, Stafford Lombard, Susan London, Paul Mariz, John, Tammy and Lucas Millsap, Roberta Miner, Dan Monda, Debbie Monda, Jim Munchel, Meghan O’Neill, the wonderful folks at ReaderLink Distribution Services, my ever-faithful friends from Sacred Heart School (you rule), Eva Marie Saint, John Saul and Mike Sack, the cool gang at Shelf Awareness, John Simmons and Hulet, Roseann Stella, Dan Stutesman, George and Sheila Stydahar, Marc Von Borstel, and Ruth Young.

  Finally, thanks to my sibs and their families. Adele, Mary Lou, Cathy, Bill, and Joan... you guys are the greatest.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Saturday, October 6, 2018

  Rhododendron, Oregon

  Nate Bergquist wondered if he’d survive this weekend with his brother.

  They were on their way to the family cabin near Mt. Hood National Forest, about an hour southeast of Portland. It was a tradition, going there for their birthdays. The brothers were born four years and one day apart: October seventh and eighth. They’d missed coming here last year. Nate’s older brother, Gil, had insisted on this trip. He said he didn’t want to see the tradition die. But Nate couldn’t help thinking his brother had another reason for this hasty getaway.

  Gil drove fast—with his window halfway open. The wind tousled his near-shoulder-length, golden blond hair. Not many people at thirty-six could pull off the long-haired preppy look, but Gil made it work for him.

  Riding shotgun, Nate felt his stomach tighten as they took another curve in
the highway. He listened to the tires squeal and braced his hand against the dashboard. Route 26 narrowed down to two lanes as it wound through the woods, and at times, it seemed choked with RVs. But that didn’t slow down his brother any. He kept passing the trailers and motor homes, one after another. The needle on the speedometer of Gil’s Audi coupe hovered near eighty.

  “Hey, Steve McQueen, what’s the goddamn hurry?” Nate almost had to shout to be heard over the wind whipping through the car. “The cabin isn’t going anywhere. Would you mind slowing down?”

  Leaning to his left, Nate spied his girlfriend, Rene, in the rearview mirror. She and Gil’s new girlfriend, Cheryl, sat crammed together in the backseat. The wind had done a number on their hair. Rene rolled her eyes and mouthed thank you to him.

  “Pussy,” Gil muttered, shifting gears.

  Nate half turned in the passenger seat to address the women: “Are you sure the wind isn’t too much for you back there?”

  “Right now, it’s the least of my worries,” Rene replied, shouting over the sound of the wind. She was pretty with green eyes, freckles, and long, wavy tawny brown hair. A yoga instructor, she had the taut, trim body that came with the job. She was Nate’s age: thirty-two. She leaned forward and put a hand on his shoulder. “Please, tell me again, there will be alcohol when we reach our destination—if we reach our destination.”

  “Every time he gets behind the wheel, Gil puts pedal to the metal,” Cheryl announced. She smoothed back her blond hair. “I’ve gotten used to it. Actually, he’s a very good driver.”

  “I’m an excellent driver,” Gil said, imitating Dustin Hoffman’s character in Rain Man, a movie the two brothers had seen multiple times while growing up. The two of them often launched into their own language of movie quotes that no one else understood. “Kmart sucks,” Gil grumbled. “We have pepperoni pizza for dinner Monday nights . . .”

  Cheryl laughed. Rene rolled her eyes again.

  “For a thousand dollars, what was Dustin Hoffman’s name in that movie?” Gil said.

  “Raymond Babbitt,” Nate answered without hesitation. He turned forward again and noticed the speedometer had gone down to sixty-five. “And Tom Cruise was Charlie, the much cooler, better-looking younger brother.”

  “That’s only true in the movies, bub,” Gil said.

  Nate was grateful his brother had eased up on the accelerator. For a while, he’d thought Gil might have someone on his tail—not just because of his crazy driving, but also from the way he kept checking his rearview mirror. Gil was a private detective, and weird little episodes of intrigue were a hazard of his profession. If someone was indeed following them, it would be like Gil not to say anything that would worry the women folk.

  Nate checked the side mirror. No one was behind them.

  Now that they weren’t driving so fast, he could actually enjoy the scenery along the way: the familiar creeks and small waterfalls, the evergreens bordering the highway, and all the other trees ablaze with autumn colors.

  Nate knew Gil had slowed down mostly for Rene’s sake. His brother and Rene were like cordial adversaries. They managed to tolerate each other. As Rene put it: “I like Gil, but he’s an asshole a lot of the time. And I don’t like the way he treats you—especially in front of me.”

  She’d made that painfully clear when Nate had introduced her to Gil—over dinner at McMenamins two years ago. After ninety minutes of listening to their brotherly banter, Rene had cleared her throat. “Excuse me, Gil,” she’d said calmly over her crème brûlée. “But I don’t appreciate you calling Nate ‘pussy,’ ‘douchebag,’ ‘doofus,’ or ‘wuss.’ I know you’re trying to be funny, but I don’t find it amusing at all.”

  “Well, okay...” Gil had said, looking stumped. He’d turned to Nate. “So—how about those Trail Blazers, bro?”

  At first, Nate had been embarrassed. He’d wanted his brother to like Rene, and here she was slamming Gil’s standard shtick—and a tradition of verbal abuse that had thrived for at least a quarter of a century. It was really none of her business. Yet, Gil respected her. Nate noticed he tapered off on the name-calling after that—at least, in front of Rene. Gil still liked to goad her on occasion, but never pushed it too far. He was pretty much behaving himself for this trip—so far.

  “What was I talking about before you interrupted and jumped on my ass about my driving?” Gil asked, his eyes on the road.

  “You were telling me that I should switch jobs, and I wasn’t listening,” Nate answered.

  “Just let me say this,” Gil went on. “Frank—at the agency, you know my friend Frank—he wrenched his back. So he went to Kaiser and they had him see this physical therapist there. The woman spent forty-five minutes showing him some stretching exercises. Then she printed up some exercise instructions for him and sent him on his way. They charged Frank three hundred and ninety bucks. I’ll bet that’s a hell of a lot more than you get per hour at the veterans hospital. According to Frank, this girl was like—phoning it in. She didn’t exactly break into a sweat.”

  Nate squirmed in the passenger seat. “I’m sure Kaiser gets most of that three hundred and ninety bucks,” he said. “And maybe the therapist seemed apathetic because she doesn’t like her job. I happen to love where I work. I love the guys. I like helping these veterans put themselves back together again.”

  Nate hoped Rene would keep her mouth shut. Earlier this week, he’d complained to her that one of his new patients had spit on him. In truth, the job wasn’t always the lovefest he made it out to be. Occasionally he got patients who were genuine jerks. That was true in any job. But most of the guys who came to him were still traumatized and in pain. And his job was to inflict even more pain on them and teach them to tolerate it. Whether it was on an exercise mat, on a pair of parallel bars, or in the shallow end of a pool, he had to push these broken men to their limit. Many of them were amputees. Nate had to help them adjust to using prosthetics, and he might as well have been torturing them. But by the time they’d completed their therapy, most of his patients were grateful. Nate became like a war buddy with some of these guys. He’d wiped away their tears, lifted and carried them, and cheered them on. Once they were whole or pretty much independent, Nate always got a lump in his throat saying goodbye to them. They made him feel essential and seemed to look up to him. It was a feeling he never got from his older brother.

  “All I’m saying is that you work like a dog, and they pay you shit,” Gil said. He checked the rearview mirror again. “It took seven years to earn your degree, and for what, Nate? How much do you rake in a year? Fifty? Fifty-five grand?”

  Nate turned toward his window. “Around there,” he mumbled.

  He was pretty sure his brother didn’t make much more as a private detective.

  Nate used to look up to Gil, who had been kind of wild when they were growing up. He attracted people with his charm, his good looks, and his athletic prowess. He was a tough act to follow. Much of Nate’s identity was wrapped up in being Gil Bergquist’s kid brother—and that had made him proud until late high school. Then he’d started to resent it.

  Time had shifted things around a bit. Nate was in great physical shape from working out with his patients every day. He was tall, with blue eyes, wavy black hair, and a goatee. As for Gil, though still handsome, he’d gotten paunchy. He’d had two failed marriages and rarely saw his only child, a nine-year-old daughter who lived with the first ex-wife in Ashland. His private investigation business was unsteady. He was probably in debt up to his elbows and certainly couldn’t afford the Audi. If someone was actually following them on the highway, it was probably a repo man.

  Gil was always pushing the envelope, living beyond his means.

  Two nights ago, when he’d called Nate about this trip, Gil had mentioned that he was about to “score a shitload of money.”

  “And how exactly is that going to happen, Sherlock?” Nate had asked.

  “I’m not at liberty to say, but it involves some informati
on I’ve dug up for a client—valuable information, it turns out.”

  “This doesn’t sound very aboveboard,” Nate had said warily. “In fact, it sounds way under the board. What’s going on?”

  “The less you know about it, the better. But if everything goes according to plan, I’ll be sitting pretty next week.”

  “Jesus, Gil, I can’t believe this. What are you doing, pulling a bank heist or something?”

  “That’s it, I’m Thomas Crown.” He’d chuckled. “Relax. It’s nothing that serious. Forget I even said anything.”

  To Nate, it sounded like extortion—what with that talk about the valuable information Gil had dug up for a client. Gil had gotten into trouble before with other shady get-rich schemes. He’d been lucky not to have his detective’s license revoked or been arrested or worse.

  And yet, here was Gil, Mr. Shady Deal, doling out career advice to him.

  “If I were you, I’d tell the VA hospital to take this job and shove it,” Gil said as he took a curve in the highway. “Then I’d find some cushy work at one of these health care providers. Or you could start your own business—like I did, work out of your house for a while, no overhead. Anything but that miserable hospital job . . .”

  “I’ll take that under advisement,” Nate replied.