44. Petra
PETRA
Say what you will about the snobbish student body at St. Anselm Hall, they—we—know how to spring back from unspeakable tragedies and get to work.
True to our intent of finding out the twisted homicidal maniac who’s responsible for the deaths of our schoolmates, Sin and I reconvene at my house the next day, our laptops and a stack of local newspapers spread out across the table.
“Right, we need to go through these systematically,” I say with resolve. “Let’s start with major incidents and look for any headline that stands out.”
Sin nods, flipping through another newspaper and scanning the headlines for any notably grisly murders and deaths.
Jesus, what a morbid investigation, I think to myself.
Then my attention shifts to Sin and the focused look on his face. It’s a chilly day, so he has brought me a warm thermos filled with delicious chicken soup. And the most fetching cashmere throw that matches my sea-green pajamas.
My heart flutters at the sight of him: so serious in his perusal of newspapers just because I have a hunch. It’s almost embarrassing to admit how much I have been looking forward to us hanging out together, like we used to do before the fall ball.
“Here’s one,” Sin says suddenly, and I jump a little.
He doesn’t notice, thankfully, because he’s pointing to an online article.
“Nineteen years ago, there was a mass suicide in the town square. Twenty-five people, all at the same time.”
I can’t believe he has found something already, so I go behind him and start reading the article over his shoulder.
The details are grisly: how the people—all successful SAH alumni, including some CEOs of large companies—had punctured their carotid artery in the middle of the square, which is barely two blocks away from the SAH compound; how the ambulance had taken forever to reach them because the street had been mysteriously blocked off from all incoming traffic.
By the time emergency personnel reached the scene, all twenty-five were already dead.
“This is it.” A cold shiver runs down my spine. “This matches the painting exactly.”
Though the situation is chilling, I can’t help but feel a modicum of relief that the scene from the painting was not the same as the one in my dream. That would be weird . . . right?
I’m sure it’s just the stress getting to me, so I shouldn’t mind those dreams or give them too much importance. As it stands, in my dream, the suicide of the twenty-five happened in the nineteenth century, not in modern times.
“Apparently, someone told the news crew that these people were part of a cult,” Sin points out. “So does this mean they also met at the crypt?”
“Maybe,” I reply, unconvinced.
The crypt wasn’t known to that many. And if twenty-five people knew about its existence nineteen years ago, there is a high probability that others besides Sin would know about the crypt’s existence and location.
Something doesn’t add up.
“It explains why those paintings were hidden away,” Sin theorizes with a fervent glint in his eyes. “Maybe they were documenting their actions for others to understand their suicide after they were dead.”
“Hmm, I’m not entirely sure about that theory. Let’s dig around some more,” I reply.
We resume our search. The next discovery, regrettably, is mine.
“Sin, I found something!” When he hurries over to my seat, I point to an old newspaper article on my screen. “There was a fire at a house party fifteen years ago. Five people died.”
“And that’s exactly like the second painting!” Sin exclaims, grasping my shoulder. “The fire . . . the number of victims . . . it’s all there.”
“Sin, if the first incident happened nineteen years ago and then this one took place fifteen years ago, that means whoever’s behind these murders can’t be someone our age.”
Sin looks thoughtful as he skims through the article on my screen. “Yup, that’s what I was thinking, as well. The deaths have to be the work of someone older, someone who’s been planning this for a long time.
“And since the murders occurred randomly fifteen and nineteen years ago, I doubt it has anything to do with that nonsense about the semicentennial sacrifices.”
Silence ensues.
He has that look on his face, the one he gets when he’s pondering over some unpleasant idea that he’s hesitant to vocalize.
So I ask, “What are you thinking?”
“I think we need to dig deeper into my family’s history,” Sin says after a few more seconds of silence have slid by. “Maybe there are other documents or records we could get our hands on. And my parents, they might know something. I think we should have a chat with them.”
“Sin, are you sure that’s a good idea?” I rush to ask this question because meeting the Arnoult family is a prospect that fills me with bone-chilling anxiety. “What if your parents don’t know anything, or worse, what if they don’t like me and—”
“Relax, they’re gonna love you!” Sin says in a teasing voice before assuming a more serious expression. “I mean it, Petra, you’re everything they adore: lovely, stylish, well-read. They’ll be thrilled to meet you, I promise.”
When I still look hesitant, he adds, “And you’ll like my sister, Marie; she’s just great. If you feel awkward around my mom and dad, you can always just hang with her. She will make you feel right at home.”
“All right, Sin, we’ll see if your parents know something.”
I sound reluctant because I am. In fact, I’m so flustered that I almost forget about the morning’s discoveries from the old newspaper articles because of the impending visit to Chez Arnoult.
What will his parents be like? I know that they are a family of academics and generationally wealthy curators, but are his mom and dad like the other rich families in Radcliffe: politely condescending and bitingly particular about their preferences? What if Sin’s parents don’t prefer me?
As these thoughts race across my mind, my stomach churns all of a sudden.
Lately, I have been feeling increased pressure around my lower stomach, and these pangs are often accompanied by bouts of nausea.
Presently, I take a deep breath, but a sudden kick in my stomach makes me wince.
Sin notices immediately.
“Petra, are you okay?” he rushes to my side and starts stroking my back, as if out of instinct. “You look pale.”
“I’m fine,” I say dismissively, but he clearly doesn’t believe me. And besides, I feel another jolt of pain and the attendant feeling of wooziness. “It’s just . . . I’ve been feeling a bit sick lately.”
“Ah shit, I’m an idiot!” Sin exclaims so loudly I almost forget my physical discomfort. “You must be under so much stress—first the deaths and then the detectives nosing around, pulling you out of class. No wonder you’re so strung up, Petra.”
He swoops in and picks me up before I even know what’s happening.
“Sin, what are you doing?” I cry out, but he has already placed me down on the plush couch in the living room.
“What I should I have done much before!” he replies with a stern expression, but his eyes have a mischievous twinkle in them. “Prepare to be pampered.”
And with this declaration, he sits down near my feet and starts massaging my soles.
“Oh, wow, that feels good,” I blurt out without thinking. Because fuck, does that feel good!
“I’m glad, Petra. Try and relax, okay? We don’t want you stressing out too much,” Sin replies in a soothing tone while his broad, warm hands squeeze and knead the delicate fault lines along my toes and ankles.
It feels like hours pass as he massages my feet, the sickness finally starting to ebb, and I feel a bit more like myself. When I manage to open my eyes and look around, Sin is still there, ever observant and watchful.
Soon, the feeling of pressure and nausea passes by, and I feel my body sinking deeper into the soft cushions.
“No, Sin. It’s not just the stress. There’s something I need to tell you.” The words are out before I can rethink my decision for the umpteenth time.
And thank God for that because Sin deserves to know the truth. Amelia was right. I need to tell him.
His eyes widen at the firm resolve on my face.
“What is it, Petra?”
“Sin, the baby . . . it’s yours.”
For a moment, the world seems to stop.
Outside, the sounds of traffic proceed at a serene volume, never too loud to encroach upon the meticulously manicured tranquility of the high-end neighborhood.
Sin’s face tightens and slackens with a range of emotions—surprise, confusion, and finally, dawning joy. “But you said—”
“I know, I know,” I interrupt him in a quivering voice, because I’m afraid I might lose the guts to tell him the whole truth if I stop now.
“I lied because I was scared. I didn’t know how you’d react, and everything has been so .
. . crazy. But you deserve to know the truth, so here it is: This baby is yours. ”
“Petra, why didn’t you tell me sooner?” Sin is looking at me with an expression of elation and intrigue.
“Please don’t be mad at me. I was just clueless about what to do, I suppose? And that’s why I lied. In the interest of full disclosure, that night . . . it was my first time, and I don’t even remember much of it.”
I have started to ramble in my disoriented state, but Sin calms me down by taking my hand in his.
His eyes are mellow and golden in the dusk light as he says, “Petra, you’re the only woman I’ve ever slept with, too.”
I blink. “What? But . . . how?”
He chuckles softly, even looking down like a shy schoolboy. Which, admittedly, he is. “I’ve never been with anyone else because . . . I’ve had a crush on you forever. I couldn’t imagine being with anyone else. Ever.”
“Now you’re just pulling my leg!” I exclaim, but he just looks at me and shrugs. “Sin, I had no idea. I thought . . . I thought you were way more experienced.”
He shakes his head with a bemused smile. “And now you know, Petra. You’re the only one I’ve ever wanted. In fact, I knew you were the only one I wanted from the first moment I saw you.”
His words sound new and strange, much like some foreign language, but I am much too flustered with desire to care.
Watching me turn over his words in my mind, he leans in closer, and his breath—minty with just the hint of coffee—feels warm against my lips.
In the next moment, I grab his collar and pull him to myself.
The kiss starts unsurely at first, with Sin gingerly placing his arms around me, as if he’s afraid of hurting me. But I’m not in any mood for restraint, so I deepen the kiss, sucking on his fuller lower lip with much abandon.
He moans a little before tightening his grip around my hips.
After what feels like forever, we pull away, and Sin rests his forehead against mine, looking flushed with happiness. “This has to be the happiest day of my life, Petra. Thank you for telling me. I really mean it.”
It feels good to finally unburden myself of the lie I had initially told, and I feel a sense of peace settle over me.
“And you’re not mad at me? For lying?” I clarify.
“Of course not, Petra. I understand why you did it.” Sin’s eyes are full of good-natured concern and only that. “You were scared and overwhelmed. I don’t blame you.”
“But we’re so young to be parents, Sin.”
This thought has been preying on me for months now, so it’s even more of a relief to say the words out loud to the father of my child.
“I know we’re young,” Sin replies in a firm voice, “but I know that as long as I’m with you, I can do anything. So don’t you worry, Petra—” he pats my nose affectionately— “we’ll figure it out together.”
“Really? Two young lovers, united against the world?” I respond in a wry tone.
“See, you’re already sounding like your old self!” Sin exclaims in a grand voice. “Confession is good for the soul, isn’t it, Petra?”
And as we melt into each other’s arms for the second time today, I’m much too content to contest him on that point.