65. Petra
PETRA
The only way to solve these mysteries is to make sense of the murders—to look for connections, for motives. Because I no longer believe this is simply about sacrifices or some kind of pagan ritual. It’s too disorganized, too erratic for that.
Pocketing the photo of past Petra and past Sin, I carefully restack the papers where I found them and slip out of the office.
Back in the living room, I spot the corner where Sin has spread out his school things. I settle onto the sofa, grab a piece of paper and a pen, and begin jotting down everything I can remember about the murders.
If there’s a pattern hidden in the chaos, maybe this will help me find it—maybe even figure out who’s next. Why it’s happening. But more importantly, who’s behind it.
So, I start writing.
The first incident that comes to mind is the obelisk victims: twenty-five students who appeared to have taken their own lives by cutting their jugulars. At the time, it was branded a ritual murder. And according to past-life Sin, it might truly have been just that.
Then, only a few days later, Rutherford was killed. Followed soon after by Underwood.
Those two murders are different; we know they were carried out by Snowden’s creature.
At some point, either before or after the obelisk deaths, there were the fifteen mausoleum victims, each bearing the same puncture wounds to the sides of their necks.
And lastly, among the known victims from the nineteenth century, there’s the still-unnamed father and daughter duo who died together.
I draw a line beneath that list and begin jotting down the more recent murders.
From my discussions with Sin, I remember the mass suicide of the St. Anselm Hall alumni, which took place around nineteen years ago. They died in the same manner—and in the same number—as the obelisk victims: twenty-five.
Then, fifteen years ago, there was the house party where several attendees died in a fire. This incident is eerily preserved in the painting hidden on the walls in the tunnels.
A year ago, the Blackwell family perished from what was ruled a gas leak. I’m still questioning whether this had anything to do with the town’s ritualistic history—or if it was just a tragic accident.
And yet, something nags at me.
Children survived in both that incident and the house party fire. In fact, in all these older cases, the innocent were spared.
Until now.
Edwin. Harry. The unidentified dismembered man in the town square. And the unnamed victims from the religious community.
Once I’ve finished laying out all the facts, I stare at the page, deep in thought.
Sin had mentioned that the town believes a murder must happen every couple of decades—that some sort of ritual is expected. He also suggested that some past deaths might’ve gone unnoticed, or been explained away as accidents.
And yet, the deaths I’ve listed . . . they don’t follow a pattern. Not clearly, at least.
Next to Rutherford and Underwood’s names, I write plainly: Killed by Snowden. They’re the only two victims for whom we know the murderer, but their deaths are still relevant. They connect to the broader mystery.
For the obelisk and mausoleum victims, I add an asterisk and note that they weren’t good people. According to Sin, they were chosen specifically because of their pasts—because of some wrongdoing.
So what about the rest?
The alumni mass suicide from nineteen years ago—did those people also carry dark secrets? I mark that case for further research.
I’ll need to find out more about the victims’ backgrounds. I’ll do the same for the house party attendees and the Blackwell family.
If Sin’s account of selective punishment is accurate, they, too, should have had something to hide.
But that brings me back to Edwin and Harry.
Barely eighteen. Children, really. Why them? Why now?
If children had been spared before, why not now? Was an exception made? Or was this something else entirely?
And what about the religious community victims? So much of it still makes no sense.
Frustrated, I put the pen down and let out a long sigh. There’s something here, I can feel it, but it’s just out of reach.
We know one killer: Snowden. Then there are the nineteenth-century suicides, facilitated by past-life Sin.
But the murders from nineteen years ago?
Sin wasn’t even born then. And fifteen years ago, at the time of the house party, he would have been, what—four?
He couldn’t have done anything . . . unless . . .
Unless he never died.
Unless Sin sold his soul for immortality.
A shiver works its way through me.
A noise in the back of the apartment draws my attention. A door opens and closes: the one that leads down to the tunnels beneath the cemetery.
Then Sin appears.
I hold myself still, watching him approach with cautious eyes. These recent murders have no explanation . . . unless Sin—this Sin—never truly died in the past.
“Hey there,” I manage to say. It hurts to speak, but I force a smile, not wanting him to suspect anything. Not until I have something concrete.
“Sweetheart,” he starts, setting down a bag of takeout on the table. He looks tense.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“They identified the body,” he says quietly.
“The chopped-up one from the town square?” I ask.
He nods. “It was Francois.”
“What?” I whisper, stunned.
He comes to my side and pulls me into his arms. “This is so fucked up,” he mutters.
“But why Francois? What could he have done?” I whisper.
“I don’t know, but everyone is terrified. They think someone’s targeting students,” he says. “They’re even considering canceling classes for the rest of the term.”
“What?” I blink. “Canceling classes?”
He nods. “Even if the school doesn’t go through with it, I doubt many parents will want their kids coming back. Not with an unknown danger out there.”
“You’re right,” I murmur, shaking my head. “This is . . . I don’t understand.”
“I don’t either. But the students have already gathered in the town square to place candles and flowers where he was found. His parents are already planning the funeral.”
“One too many funerals lately,” I mutter under my breath.
“And we’ll have to go to this one, too.”
“Do we have to?”
“Of course. He was our colleague, wasn’t he?”
“Was he?” I grumble. “Never liked him anyway.”
“Petra!” Sin exclaims, half-shocked.
“What? I feel bad that he’s dead, of course. But it’s not like I’m going to miss him. I don’t think anyone will. All his friendships were surface-level anyway.”
He stares at me for a second, stunned. Then chuckles. “My, my. You’re so bloodthirsty all of a sudden.”
I shrug. Francois has always been mean to me. Why should I feel sorry for him?
“What do you have there?” he asks, pointing to the piece of paper next to me.
Damn it.
I should have hidden it when I had the chance, before I got distracted by his sudden appearance, his perfect face, and that infuriatingly perfect body.
I mentally berate myself, blaming it on hormones. Too many hormones, thanks to you-know-who.
“Oh, that . . .” I trail off as he picks up the paper.
“This is a list of everyone that’s been killed so far—or at least the ones we know about,” I say quickly, grabbing a pen to add Francois’s name next to the previously unidentified body from the town square.
“This is quite the detective work you’ve done,” Sin murmurs, running a finger over the table I’ve compiled. “But how would you know about these?” he asks, pointing to the nineteenth-century murders.
It would be so easy to say I saw them in my dreams.
But that would open a whole other can of worms I’m not ready to deal with. I’d have to admit I know about past-life Sin, about his powers, and about his involvement in those deaths. And what if he is the same Sin—and never died at all? I’m not ready for that conclusion. Not yet.
I need more proof. More facts. Something undeniable.
More than anything, I can’t bear the thought of confronting him only to see disappointment in his eyes. Of being accused of not trusting him . . . of assuming the worst.
So, I lie.
“I found some old papers. Newspaper clippings. They were in one of the locked rooms.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. The one at the end of the hallway,” I say casually. “There were articles about Rutherford’s and Underwood’s murders, as well as the mass suicide in the town square.”
I conveniently leave out the mausoleum deaths, hoping he won’t ask.
“I see. You haven’t wasted any time looking around.”
I shrug. “This is serious, Sin. We need to figure out who’s doing this. Because at this rate . . . I mean, what if we’re next?”
He sobers instantly. “You’re right. You’re absolutely right. You did good—really good, Petra.”
Momentarily, I find myself lost in his gaze, my cheeks flushing at his words of praise. I’ve always considered myself a perfectionist, always striving to do well in . . . well, everything really. Unfortunately, praise has never been my parents’ strong suit.
“Thank you,” I murmur, suddenly bashful.
He leans in to kiss my cheek. “You’re so smart,” he whispers. “I love that sexy brain of yours.”
My heart pounds wildly in my chest. Sexy . . . brain. That must be the best compliment anyone’s ever given me.
“Did I make you blush?” he drawls with a grin.
“What? Of course not. Check your sight, Arnoult,” I say playfully, hiding my face in the crook of his shoulder.
His chest rumbles with laughter, and for a brief moment, I forget all about my worries, my suspicions, my fears.
How is it that his mere presence has the power to make me feel so safe even when my brain doubts that? It’s almost as if my body reacts to his on a cellular level, getting me to lower my guard when logically I should not.
The paper slides to the floor as he pulls me into his arms.
“You smell so good,” he murmurs as he trails his nose down my neck.
“Mhm,” I say as I pull his face to mine for a deep kiss.
“You drive me crazy, Petra. So fucking crazy . . .” he pulls back just enough to whisper the words against my lips. “Sometimes I’m amazed at my restraint.”
I raise a brow at him.