The Bad Sister. Kevin O'Brien

he did seemed to help, so eventually Nate gave up and moved back into his own apartment in Portland. One Friday night eighteen months ago, their dad got drunk, slipped, and hit his head on the corner of the breakfast table. He lost consciousness and never woke up. When Nate hadn’t been able to get him on the phone the following Sunday, he swung by the house and found his father on the kitchen floor. He’d bled to death from the gash in his head.

      Nate was devastated and blamed himself for giving up on his father months before. In his job, he never quit on his patients. But his dad was so selfish in his grief. As Gil had pointed out to him, “The old man didn’t make any effort to be strong for us after we lost our mother. He just wanted to numb himself with booze and shut everyone else out.” At the time, Gil was dealing with divorce number two—and he was kind of bitter about everything.

      While Nate made the funeral arrangements, Gil had an estate broker go through their parents’ house. This guy cleared out the place before Nate had a chance to go through his parents’ things.

      Gil didn’t seem to understand why he was so incensed. His brother assured him that they’d split down the middle whatever the estate broker raked in from the sale of their parents’ earthly possessions. That didn’t include their mother’s jewelry. Gil’s second wife had made off with most of the valuable pieces the year before. In the end, Nate got a check from his brother for $2,300, which was probably less than what the dining room set was worth. Never mind all the other furniture in the house, the electronics, the silver, china, and various antiques. Nate wasn’t sure if it was the estate broker ripping them off or if Gil was holding out on him.

      Nate paid a lot more attention to the details when they sold their parents’ house. But by then, things between Gil and him were slightly strained. It wasn’t so much that he minded getting cheated out of the money—though he didn’t like being treated like a chump. He figured Gil was desperate for funds. He was always in some kind of financial trouble. No, what really bothered Nate was that he hadn’t been able to hold on to some of the things that reminded him of his mom and dad and his childhood.

      Since their dad’s death, the two of them had gotten together only a few times—for lunch or dinner. But for Nate, it was always sort of a chore. They both knew their relationship wasn’t the same. And they both knew it wouldn’t do any good to discuss it.

      But just a couple of days ago, Gil had the bright idea about this trip—with Rene and Cheryl in tow. He was adamant about it. As an extra lure, Gil said he had several items from their parents’ home, items the estate broker hadn’t wanted. Nate didn’t understand why his brother hadn’t told him about these rescued family “treasures” until now. In fact, the sudden urgency for this “birthday getaway” seemed oddly suspicious. Nate couldn’t help wondering if, for one reason or another, Gil needed to get out of town for a while. Perhaps things were so dicey he even needed to make sure his girlfriend and his brother weren’t left behind.

      At least he’d been telling the truth about the family treasures on display in the cabin—like the big oil painting of a Swiss chalet, which now hung over the sofa. The picture had been painted by their mother’s best friend. Nate had never liked it much, but he was happy it hadn’t ended up with strangers. The semi-kitschy painting had been in his parents’ living room for as long as he could remember.

      Gil had shoved most of the things he didn’t know what to do with into the small bedroom off the kitchen. The junk was still there in boxes. Nate figured he’d sort through all of it after dinner. He saw that Gil had placed some familiar knickknacks and framed family photos on the mantel of the river rock fireplace in the living room. Nate had always thought the room resembled a lodge with its hardwood floors, knotty-pine walls, and the high-vaulted ceiling. In one corner, there was a winding staircase to the other bedrooms and bathroom. Another corner had an alcove with a desk. When he was a kid, Nate used to spend his evenings in the tilt-back swivel chair, drawing. Sometimes, he’d imagine a bear emerging from the dark woods and crashing through the big window in front of the desk. As he grew a bit older, Nate’s imaginary killer bear was replaced by a man in a hockey mask, carrying a machete.

      Gil was right about his overactive imagination—back when they were kids, at least.

      Nate heard the pipes squeak and realized his brother was finished showering upstairs. Gil had mentioned starting a fire in the hearth after dinner. Nate stepped outside and gathered up some logs from the stack on one side of the cabin. During a second trip for another load, he thought he heard something moving nearby in the woods. It sounded like footsteps, twigs snapping.

      He stopped and listened for a moment. He didn’t see anything, just the tree branches swaying in the night wind. Nate gathered up the logs, brought them inside, and unloaded them in the brass bin by the fireplace. He went back to the door, and closed and double-locked it.

      “Nate? Could you come in here and help us with this damn stove?” Rene called.

      None of the appliances in the kitchen matched—and each one was older and quirkier than the next. The “biscuit”-colored fridge made all sorts of ghostly noises. The dishwasher was a dull stainless steel, and left all the glasses looking cloudy. And the ancient gas range/oven was chipped white enamel—with a temperamental pilot light.

      Nate caught a whiff of shrimp when he stepped into the kitchen. A big bowl of them sat on the counter. Tonight’s dinner menu was garlic butter shrimp, steamed vegetables, and pasta.

      “We’ve used up a box of matches trying to get this stupid oven lit,” Rene announced. Moving over to the counter, she poured some more wine into her glass. “And speaking of getting lit, I’m having another glass of this cabernet. Cheryl, can I top you off?”

      “You don’t have to twist my arm.” Nibbling on a cracker, Gil’s girlfriend stepped away from the stove and held out her wineglass for Rene.

      Nate chuckled. “I have a feeling you two will be hammered by dinnertime.”

      “You almost say that like it’s a bad thing,” Rene quipped.

      Nate kissed her shoulder as he stepped around her to the counter. He started to open the junk drawer where they kept the extra matches. That was when he saw something outside the kitchen window.

      He froze as two people staggered from the shadowy woods.

      “Oh my God,” Rene said behind him. She must have seen them, too.

      It took Nate a moment to figure out it was a man and a woman, both wearing dark jackets. They didn’t look like hikers or campers. At least, they weren’t wearing backpacks.

      In all the times he’d stayed at the cabin, Nate had never encountered a stranger anywhere near the house. It didn’t make sense that this couple had just come out of nowhere. The man was balding and about thirty. As he approached the cabin, he seemed to notice Nate in the window, staring back at him. The guy waved, and then started limping.

      The woman’s short-cropped dark hair was messy, and she had dirt on her face. She looked exhausted. “Help us!” she cried. “For God’s sake . . .”

      Suddenly Nate heard the back door being unlocked. He turned away from the window in time to see Cheryl opening the door for the two strangers. “Are you hurt?” she called.

      “We couldn’t get any goddamn cell phone service!” the man yelled. “Our car broke down—”

      “We started walking and got lost,” the woman spoke over him.

      The guy almost knocked Cheryl down as he staggered into the kitchen. He pushed the door open wider, and it banged against the wall. His companion followed him in.

      “We thought we were going to die out in those fucking woods,” he gasped. “We’ve been walking around for at least three hours . . .”

      “Are either of you hurt?” Nate asked. They’d never answered Cheryl’s question.

      “My ankle—I twisted my goddamn ankle,” the man said, plopping down in a chair at the breakfast table. He accidentally knocked over Cheryl’s wineglass. It hit the floor