66. Petra #2
“I didn’t want you to feel bad. I know how hard you worked, even though you were homeschooled. You were always such a good student, always going above and beyond. When you submitted your art portfolio, I didn’t want you to think it wasn’t good enough.”
“But still,” I say, “you should’ve told me.”
“You got in. That’s all that matters.”
“No. Because I didn’t get in. That man got me in.”
“Well, he may have helped, but it was still all you. Your grades have been impeccable—that’s all you.”
I narrow my eyes.
Before we moved to Radcliffe, I thought I would finish my education being homeschooled and taking my GED. Suddenly, though, my mother pivoted and suggested I might benefit from going to a regular school and making some friends.
She gave me a stack of brochures, encouraging me to consider high schools that offered the best education.
She made it seem like I had a choice, but clearly, I didn’t.
I chose St. Anselm Hall for its art history program and its gorgeous Gothic architecture—but now I learn it was all part of some plan?
Something about this feels too orchestrated. And lately, coincidences have stopped feeling like coincidences.
“Tell me more about this sponsor. Why would he recommend me if the school only takes legacies?”
“His name is Kimaris. We haven’t spoken to him in a long time.
He’s a very successful businessman—reclusive, but kind.
He helped us find our house here, introduced us to some very influential people.
You know how many important families live in this town.
He thought Radcliffe would be perfect for us, and we agreed. After all, he saved the company.”
“Kimaris,” I echo, my blood running cold. “Did you just say Kimaris? What was his full name?”
“Oh, dear, I don’t remember,” my mom replies. “We haven’t heard from him in ages. It was right before we moved here that we last spoke. He helped us get the house and then disappeared.”
A shiver runs through me.
The implications are unmistakable. If he’s been around long enough to influence my parents, convince them to move here, get me enrolled into St. Anselm . . .
If Kimaris—Sin’s name in the past—never died . . .
Then we’re talking about someone who’s immortal.
And then something else strikes me.
“Mom, I’ve never asked you this before, but why did you name me Petra?”
It’s been bothering me: the fact that I share the name and face of past-life Petra. I used to think it was coincidence. But now?
My mom smiles fondly. “Oh, that’s quite a story, actually.”
She softens, the mood shifting.
“We were visiting Vatican City, and my water broke right there in the crypt under St. Peter’s Basilica.
We tried to call for an ambulance, but nothing was working as the phone lines were down.
The whole tour group was panicking. I wasn’t even due yet—only eight and a half months—so we never expected it.
We didn’t even think we could fly that far along, but the airline said it was all right.
That’s why we accepted the trip in the first place. ”
“You accepted the trip? What do you mean?”
“We won it, actually. It was a prize for a random competition your father entered. A very strange chain of events, if you think about it. But it all led to you.”
“Right,” I say. “So you won a trip to the Vatican and were underground in the crypt.”
“Yes.” She nods. “And there was this really odd blackout. No way to call for help. We were terrified. No one in our group had medical experience. But coincidentally, Kimaris was there.”
“Coincidentally,” I murmur as the pit in my gut widens to a chasm.
“Yes! Can you believe it?” she exclaims. “He was there alone, visiting. He had some kind of medical training and stepped in to help with the birth. It was easy, shockingly easy. You came into the world wailing in a crypt.” She laughs.
“And the name?”
“Oh, yes. Your father and I couldn’t agree on a name. We started bickering while I was holding you, and then Kimaris said, ‘Why don’t you name her Petra—for the place she was born?’ Isn’t that a lovely story, Petra?”
“Right. Yes. Very . . . nice.”
But as I stare at her, as I take in everything she’s told me, several things become terrifyingly clear:
One: Sin—past-life Sin—is immortal.
Two: He knew I would be reborn.
Three: He orchestrated my birth beneath St. Peter’s Basilica to ensure I would be named Petra.
Four: He engineered my parents’ move to Radcliffe and my enrollment at St. Anselm Hall.
Sin did. My Sin.
And yet, even knowing this, it’s hard to reconcile the sweet, charming boy I’ve come to know with this centuries-old manipulator.
“I really am sorry for how I reacted before, Petra,” my mother says. “I don’t want you to feel alone. I know what it’s like to be young and pregnant. You have to be ready—people will judge you.”
“I know,” I reply almost mechanically.
“But your father and I . . . well, we want to be there for you. We talked, and we’re sorting out the business. We’ll take some time off. Is it okay if it takes a few days to get things in order? We want to focus on you now.”
My mouth practically hits the floor. “You want to take time off from the company?”
“Yes. You were right—we haven’t been there for you, not like you deserved. And I want to fix that. Before it’s too late. Before we become strangers.”
“That’s very kind of you. Thank you, Mom.”
She smiles and moves closer, wrapping her arms around me in a hug, but my bump gets in the way.
“Oh!” she chuckles. “I’ll make arrangements to see a doctor, okay? We’ll talk about vitamins and supplements and—”
She keeps rambling. I nod along, not really listening.
Though her apology is genuine, and I’m honestly surprised by how well she’s handled all this, I don’t have the mental bandwidth to deal with both my parents and Sin at the same time.
Because now I know: Sin never died. He is immortal.
And that makes me wonder what truly happened in the past. Did he make a deal with the devil? Is he some type of devil?
But more importantly, he survived, and past me did not.
So how did I die?