68. Petra
PETRA
A semi-sleepless night later, I wake up and realize everything was real. Sin’s arms are tightly wrapped around me.
As I quietly shrug them off and get out of bed, I see he’s already wide awake, staring at me.
“Good morning, sweetheart,” he murmurs.
“Good morning,” I reply, forcing a smile onto my face.
I quickly go take a shower and change my clothes, then return to find him still watching me from the bed.
“You should wear something black,” he says.
“Something black?”
“Don’t you remember? Today is Francois’s funeral.”
I blink. “And we have to go?”
He nods and stands up. He’s already dressed—black trousers and a dark grey blouse. “Yes, we do. Everyone’s going.”
“I’m sure they wouldn’t be distressed if we happened to miss it,” I add dryly.
“Distressed? No. But there’s a reason you must be present, Petra.”
I frown at him.
“You know the detectives are already looking at you as a prime suspect. Not going to the funeral would give them more reason for suspicion.”
I think for a moment. He does have a point.
“Fine,” I mutter, rummaging through my closet for some dark clothes to wear. I end up settling on black tights, a dark grey skirt, and a black turtleneck.
When I’m done, Sin brings me downstairs for breakfast.
“Your parents have already left,” he mentions. “They didn’t want to wake you, but they told me they needed to take care of something for the business. They’ll be back to spend more time with you once they’ve finished.”
I nod absent-mindedly. They had said as much the day before. I’m still waiting to see if they’ll keep their promise, so I don’t put too much weight on their words.
Sin surprises me once more by preparing breakfast before taking me out to his car.
“And how’s our little champ doing today?” he asks, patting my belly affectionately.
“Good,” I mumble. “He’s good.”
He smiles at me. And I’m still left wondering—why are we keeping this charade going?
Now that we’re alone in the car, it takes me a couple of minutes to muster the courage to ask him.
“Why did you do that yesterday?”
He glances at me. “What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean. Why did you come to my house and lie to my parents?”
“I never lied,” he replies immediately. “I told them the exact truth. I am the father of your baby, and I’m more than happy to take responsibility. I want to marry you, Petra. You know that.”
“But we’ve never discussed that before.”
“Well, what’s there to discuss when it’s a given?”
“I don’t know—perhaps asking me? I’m sure girls like to be asked instead of being told they’re going to marry someone.”
He glances at me from the corner of his eye. “Would it make you feel better if I asked you?”
“Maybe.”
“Will you marry me, Petra?” he asks then, that same smile still on his face.
I blink. What am I supposed to say now? I can’t very well say no, right?
“See? I’ve asked you. Now it’s all good.”
“But I didn’t answer.”
“You don’t have to answer. I know the answer already.”
He suddenly stops the car and turns to look at me. The smile is gone. His eyes are intense, his face emotionless.
“You are mine, Petra. You will always be mine. You know it, too. There is no escaping me now.”
I stare at him in shock. “That doesn’t sound anything like what a psychotic murderer would say,” I add with dry laughter.
He doesn’t share my amusement.
“Psychotic murderer or not, you’re not getting away from me.
You’re mine. You and the baby.” Then, suddenly, he breaks into a smile.
“But now your parents like me, so that’s an added bonus.
It would’ve been hard if they decided to limit my access to you.
That wouldn’t do. So I had to make sure they were on my side. ”
“Was that what everything was? Making sure they were on your side? Isn’t that a little manipulative?” I hedge nervously.
“No. Just taking care of one extra detail. I want you to be happy, Petra. And that means knowing your parents are happy with you—and with your decisions, too.”
I’m even more confused now. One moment, he’s declaring I’m his, whether I like it or not. The next, he’s saying he wants me to be happy. It’s very paradoxical, and I cannot make sense of this constant shift in his personality.
Just who is he?
Is he the intense, no-nonsense guy who only knows how to command? Or is he this sweet angel who listens to everything I have to say?
I no longer know.
He continues driving until we reach the cemetery. There are already several cars parked, and in the distance, I see a line of people heading to the burial site. He parks and we get out, walking toward the funeral location.
As we’ve come to expect, the weather reflects the emotional charge of the situation—cloudy, windy, and on the verge of rain. A perfect mirror for the grief-ridden expressions of those mourning Francois.
Everyone from school is there. Some parents. And Francois’s relatives. His mother is holding a black handkerchief to her face, sobbing uncontrollably, while his father tries to console her.
We take our spot in the back of the crowd.
The coffin is still elevated, with the priest standing next to it, reciting a few prayers.
Just as the priest mentions the words innocent souls, Francois’s mother wails aloud.
“What did my son do to deserve this? He was always the perfect child, the perfect student. He never did anything to anyone. How could he deserve to be killed in such a manner?”
I note a few classmates also crying—or forcing themselves to cry. There’s Daphne and her mother. Her clique of friends, all of them dabbing at almost nonexistent tears.
Yet even though I didn’t like Francois, the question his mother is asking is a valid one. Why would he be killed? And why in that vicious manner? He never did anything—except being a posh prick. To my knowledge, he never hurt anyone.
Well, not physically, anyway. He was just an arrogant twat who thought he was better than everyone else. But that’s not a crime.
As I scan the crowd, I spot the two detectives in charge of the murders. Sin was right. They were going to be here—and they’re looking carefully through the crowd for any odd behavior.
“Isn’t it weird that Francois is the one who died?” I lean in to whisper to Sin. “I mean, yeah, he was an asshole, but . . . why him?”
Sin shrugs. “He was an asshole, indeed. But Petra, sometimes the real crimes are committed in the privacy of one’s life. Just because you might not know what he did, that doesn’t mean he’s entirely innocent.”
“You speak as if you know something.”
“Do I?” He shrugs. “But considering the analysis you made of the previous crimes, doesn’t it raise questions that some random kids—high school students—would be killed in such violent circumstances? No one who died before was innocent. And they all deserved to die.”
I stare at him in shock—not only at the nonchalance with which he speaks, which further fans my own suspicions, but also the fact that I never told him the people on the list were bad. That they were chosen because they were bad, to be killed or sacrificed.
He wouldn’t know that unless he was the one who arranged their murders for that exact reason.
I bite my lip uneasily. Yet another piece of confirmation that he’s behind all of this.
“And yet . . . why our classmates?” I clear my throat.
“Theoretically then, if only bad people are being targeted, what could Francois have done? I’ve never known him to be a troublemaker.
For all of his big words and loud personality, he never got in trouble at school.
Never had an issue with any authority figure. ”
Sin’s lips curl upward. “You really don’t listen to gossip, do you, Petra?”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you see the girls in our class who look apathetic?”
I look around and yes, he’s right. There are quite a few girls who stare at the coffin with blank expressions on their faces. But that’s not unusual. Grief comes in many forms. Even I, who never liked Francois, can feel a sadness at the loss of life without outwardly expressing it.
“What are you getting at?”
“Those are all his ex-girlfriends,” he says, pressing his lips together. “There were rumors that he was filming them without their consent. And then sharing those videos with other people.”
“How do you know that?”
He shrugs again. “I know everything that happens around here,” he answers with a smile.
“Did you get one of those videos?”
“No. As a matter of fact,” he leans in to whisper in my ear, “no one at school has my phone number. No one other than you, Petra.”
This is all very strange.
“So?” I ask.
He smiles. “No one could’ve sent it to me anyway. Not that I would’ve looked at it.” He trails his hand down my back, playing with the ends of my hair. “You’re the only woman I’ve ever seen in a state of undress. And I’m not interested in seeing anyone else.”
I don’t know how to reply. Mostly because . . . how did this conversation shift to this? We were talking about a tragic incident, and now he’s telling me I’m the only woman he’s ever seen naked.
Not that I don’t appreciate that piece of information, but now it’s not the time nor the place.
I slap his hand aside.
“Behave,” I say in a shushed voice. “Tell me more about those videos. He was sharing them around?”
“Yes.” He nods. “It was a well-known thing. And those girls were all victims of it. They asked him repeatedly to delete them, to stop sharing them—but he never did.”
He smirks.
“Well, until now. Because he’s not capable of sharing anything anymore.”
The dichotomy between these two personas of Sin is becoming greater and greater.
The priest finishes the prayer, and the gravediggers begin lowering the coffin into the ground. Due to the extreme disfiguration of the body, they had opted for a closed casket.
As people gather to lay flowers on top of the coffin, I notice the two detectives quietly walking toward me. Sin sees them, too, and places an arm across my waist, keeping me at his side.
“Miss Valentine.”
“Detectives.” I nod in greeting.
“We would like to hold another interview with you. Are you available in the next few days?”
“An interview? About what?” Sin is the one who asks the question.
“And you are?”
“Sinclair Arnoult. I’m Petra’s boyfriend.”
“I believe Miss Valentine can speak for herself.” The detective stares him down.
“No, he is right. Why would you want me to come in for an interview?”
“Of course—to discuss the passing of your classmate.”
Sin interjects again. “So you’re interviewing all of his classmates?”
“No.”
“Then why Petra? She didn’t have a close relationship with Francois. She barely knew him.”
“I’m speaking with Miss Valentine, not with you, Mr. Arnoult.”
“It’s as he said,” I reply. “I didn’t know Francois very well, so I’m not sure what you’d like me to say, other than that this is a tragic loss.”
“How does Monday at 8 a.m. sound for you? We can meet at the school, or if you’d prefer, at our office.”
“She’ll be at the school,” Sin replies.
The detectives give him a harsh look before nodding and moving along.
I turn to him in confusion. “Why would they want to speak with me again?”
“It’s probably just a routine interview, Petra. I’ll be there with you.”
“I don’t think they’ll want you present.”
“Tough luck. I am going to be present. I’m not letting you walk into the lion’s den alone.”
“All right. I suppose that would help. They’ve been awfully hostile toward me. I don’t know how they can think I had something to do with it. Just because I was on speaking terms with Edwin and Harry. But with Francois? It’s just odd.”
“It is,” he agrees.
Soon it’s our turn to place a flower on top of his coffin, and after both Sin and I do it, we turn around and come face-to-face with Daphne.
Arms crossed over her chest, she stares us down with the typical disdain one would expect from her.
“What are you doing here?” she demands in a loud, high-pitched voice.
“Paying our respects to a classmate,” Sin replies in a cold voice.
“He wouldn’t have wanted you here,” she says pointedly, almost jabbing her finger in my chest.
I grab her hand none too gently and twist.
“Great to hear you can communicate with the dead now, Daph.” I roll my eyes. “Because if we’re talking about what he would have wanted, I think he would have asked for a little more effort from you. You could have at least bought some eye drops to pretend you’re actually crying.”
“You bitch . . .” she adds through clenched teeth.
“Sin, would you mind clearing the way for me? I’m not in the mood for an obstacle course,” I sneer.
His eyes twinkle mischievously as he more or less shoves Daphne to the side to make room for me to walk.
“A piece of advice, Daphne,” I say as I stop a couple feet away from her. “You might want to be on your best behavior in case you’re next.”
Gasps fly all around me.
“Did you just threaten me?”
“Threat? Oh, no, it was just a friendly tip.”
With that, I signal for Sin to keep moving.
But before I can take another step, Daphne reaches for me, her hands going for my hair. I can’t say whether I expected that to happen or if my reflexes are just that good, but I half-turn at the right moment. Grabbing her hands before she can grab me, I push her backward.
She wobbles back, her heels catching on a pebble. Her arms begin to flap in an effort to keep her balance and not fall. She’s almost recovering, careening forward.
But something inside me—something vengeful and insidious—doesn’t want her to get off so easily.
I blow air toward her, muttering under my breath, “Fall.”
Eyes wide, body out of control, she stumbles farther backward until a loud thud echoes in the stillness of the cemetery.
Everyone around us gasps in shock.
There, at the bottom of the ditch, and on top of the shiny black coffin, Daphne lies still, her clothes and hair covered in mud.
She’s still, unmoving, for moments on end
“You fucking bitch!” she eventually cries out.
I let out a sigh of relief. She’s alive.
Sin takes my arm and leads me away from the commotion. Yet as we put distance between us and Daphne’s angry cries, I keep asking myself: Where did that malice come from?