69. Petra #2
“Who’s there?” I call out, tone wavering from my nerves.
“Petra?” Sin’s voice echoes back. “Where are you?”
Making sure the journal is still hidden, I walk toward him.
“What were you doing here?” he asks, his face tight with concern.
“I was just wandering around. Curious if there was anything else hidden down here.”
“You shouldn’t be alone. It could be dangerous.”
“What kind of danger?” I ask.
He only shrugs. “You never know. Come on,” he says with a smile, “I brought food. You must be starving.”
I nod and follow him back into the bunker.
The table is already set. While he’s distracted arranging things, I slip the journal behind the sofa cushion, between the frame and the armrest. Then I give him a quick smile and start eating.
He tells me he swung by his house, let his parents know he’d be staying at a friend’s for a while, and that they weren’t worried. He also called my parents to reassure them he’d take care of me.
“You have their number?” I ask, surprised.
“Of course I do, silly. It was the first thing I did after we talked. I needed an emergency contact—you never know.”
It’s strange. Or maybe it’s just me, seeing everything he does as strange.
After we finish eating, he tosses the containers and starts tidying up. He’s in a surprisingly good mood. Maybe that’s why I decide to finally bring it up.
“Sin, can I show you something?” I ask warily.
“Sure,” he says.
I take his hand and lead him to the study I found yesterday. This time, the door isn’t locked. It opens easily.
“Whoa,” he says, stepping inside. “I didn’t know this room was here.”
“I found it the other day,” I tell him.
“This is cool,” he says, glancing around.
“Come here. There’s something I want to show you.”
I bring him to the stack of documents and slowly begin laying them out. Photographs. Files.
“What’s all this?” he asks, frowning.
“Look at this one.” I hand him the photo of Arnoult and Sin Kimaris. “This man—it looks like you.”
He takes it, eyes narrowing as he inspects it. “You’re right. It does look like me.”
“Why do you think that is?”
He shrugs. “Maybe he’s an ancestor?”
“Look at the back. It says the man on the left is Arnoult the First. The one next to him is Kimaris.”
He flinches slightly at the name.
“So?”
“What do you mean, so? The man on the left is your ancestor. The one next to him—the one who looks exactly like you—is not. You don’t think that’s strange?”
“Maybe I just have a historical doppelg?nger.” He laughs nervously. “Is that what you wanted to show me?”
“No,” I say. “Sin . . . tell me the truth.”
“What truth?” he says, voice tightening. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I show him another photo, this time with the entire Theology Department. “Look again. Arnoult the First. Sinclair Arnoult. And next to him, Sin Kimaris.” I pause. “He has your name. And your face.”
He doesn’t respond.
“Don’t you think that’s strange?”
“Petra . . .”
“And look at these.” I shuffle through old newspaper clippings. “All these murders. Don’t they mean anything to you?”
“What are you trying to say?”
I meet his gaze, my voice quiet but steady. “Tell me the truth, Sin. Is this you?”
He looks at me, eyes unreadable. There’s something there, something I can’t quite place.
“You’ve been reading too many paranormal novels,” he says lightly. “How could it be me? This photo is over a hundred years old.”
“That’s exactly why I find it weird,” I say. “This isn’t just someone who looks like you. It is you.”
“Petra, no.”
“Sin, please. Tell me.”
“I don’t know what you want me to say. It’s someone who looks like me, but I was born nineteen years ago. Not in the nineteenth century.”
“You’re lying.”
“I’m not.”
“You are. I know you are.”
“Maybe you’ve been overthinking things—between the funeral, the detectives, all of it. Of course, you’re stressed. And wandering through the tunnels . . . it’s madness.”
“Is it?” I whisper. “Because I’ve dreamed of this. Of Kimaris. Of this place. Of the murders.”
He sighs. “Petra . . .”
“What?” I snap.
“I’m worried about you. Come on, you should rest.”
“You’re not listening—”
“Please.”
Frustrated, I storm out of the study. I won’t get anything out of him. Not tonight. Even with the evidence—that photograph—he won’t admit anything.
So how do I find out the truth?
The answer comes to me then.
The only way to understand the past is to see it. To dream it.
Maybe, in some twisted way, Sin is right. What I need to do is sleep. Sleep, and dream. See how past-life Sin became this Sin.
He calls my name behind me, but I ignore him.
I change into clean pajamas and get into bed. Yet even as I close my eyes, a thought keeps needling at me: the journal. The nun’s habit. The silver cross.
So I pull out my phone and search for the history of St. Anselm Hall.
Founded in the nineteenth century . . . but before that?
I scroll down. There, a small entry on the university’s Wikipedia page. Built on top of an old convent. The land had been gifted to the state by the church.
Just then, Sin slides into bed beside me.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I behaved badly.”
I tuck my phone under my pillow. “You did. You implied there’s something wrong with me.”
“No. It’s not you. It’s me.”
I turn to face him. “Then tell me, Sin. What’s going on?”
“I can’t. Not yet.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s not my story to tell. Not fully. But when you need to know . . . you’ll know.”
He leans in and kisses my brow.
“Sleep, my darling. Sleep. Know that you’re safe with me. And that no matter what you discover, no matter what happened in the past, I love you. I have always loved you. I always will.”
His words are ominous.
But still, my eyelids grow heavy. My body relaxes.
And I sleep.