78. Petra
PETRA
What I thought would be a couples’ retreat in an underground bunker with lots of lovemaking and maybe some detective work ended up with me back at my house.
Alone.
My parents are still away, which gives me some time to think about everything.
Although I’d already suspected a great deal of what Sin told me, some things truly shocked me.
He made a deal with a demon. He sold human souls in exchange for a home. For me.
When I woke up and remembered all the details, I was ready to hate him for abandoning me. But then he told me he did come—that he might have been late, but he never abandoned me. Instead, he embraced death with me.
Except death was not the end for him.
I am confused on how to feel about it. The logical thing would be to be horrified. To shun him and forget about him—forever.
But I am far from logical, especially when it comes to him.
He chose to damn himself just so he would not forget about me. He waited years for me to come back. He suffered in silence, all alone.
No matter how much I want to condemn him for all the manipulation, for everything he did to orchestrate my life and our encounters, I find that I cannot. Because if it were me instead of him, if I had been the one to survive, I would have done the same.
I would have done the same as him to ensure he returns to me, that he remains mine, that he cannot see or meet any other woman.
He might have taken advantage of me, and that does sting a little since I was so oblivious to it all along. But if the roles were reversed, I would have done exactly the same.
Perhaps we’re not so different after all—sans the murderous history, of course. But even accounting for the people he killed, he never harmed an innocent. From the beginning, he only went after evil souls.
And despite my previous misgivings, after hearing him out, I do believe him when he says he did not kill the students.
But the question remains: Who did?
Could it be Arnoult as Tom? Maybe Leah as Lisa? An attempt to get revenge on those who wronged them in the past? But it still doesn’t make sense: Why choose some high-school students for that revenge? Unless they were also reincarnations of people from the past.
I exhale loudly as I slouch in my seat at the desk. My brain is fried from trying to make sense of everything, and I can feel the emotional fatigue starting to claim me.
I turn on my computer and note a text from Sin.
Are you all right?
I’m fine. Taking a nap. Talk to you later.
Please let me know if you feel off in any way. I’ll be there in a second.
Right, a second, because he has supernatural powers.
Good Lord, what has my life become if this is the new normal?
I’m about to tell him we agreed on some distance when another icon catches my sight. It’s the school chat, and there are hundreds of unread messages.
I don’t know what makes me open it—chalk it up to curiosity. Although I’ve never been active in the chat, it usually is the place for the latest gossip and other announcements.
With the death of Francois, it’s no doubt teeming with terrified teenagers trying to make sense of a potential serial killer in our midst.
As I open the chat, it scrolls up to the last read message. I look curiously through the messages, noting the increased anxiety among my peers.
But then I reach the messages from a couple of days ago, after Francois’s funeral.
“Petra has some gall to go against Daphne at the funeral.”
“She has some gall to show her face at all. I can’t believe Sin continues to hang out with her when she’s so pregnant.”
“Who do you think the baby daddy is?”
“I doubt she even knows it.”
That message was sent by Daphne.
I ball my hands into fists as I scan through the many messages debating on who the father of my baby is.
“My money’s on Harry,” someone says.
“If that’s true, she’s going to end up a single mom. *Laughing emoji*.”
“She’s gonna end up a single mom regardless. Who wants to take care of a baby in high school?”
“I have some info.” Daphne, again.
“What?”
“Tell us.”
“What is it, Daph?”
“Rumor has it she’s been sleeping with Edwin, Harry, and Francois.”
What? What rumor? And Francois of all people? Ew!
If you’re going to lie about something, Daphne, at least make it believable.
“Francois?” It seems my classmates are also reluctant to believe that.
Yet the next message is a picture. A nude picture of me—or, at least, it has my face on a naked body. My mouth drops open in shock as I stare at how realistic it is. It must have been made with some AI software, one of those deepfakes I’ve heard about.
If I didn’t know I’ve never taken any nude photos before, even I would have believed that is me.
A barrage of shocked messages from the other classmates, followed by a few more pictures in different positions. But the pièce de résistance is a video. Of fake me and . . . Francois?
What the fuck?
Rage bubbles inside of me as I stare at my likeness being used in such a lurid fashion.
“Waaa, slut!”
“She’s such a whore. No wonder she has no idea who the baby daddy is.”
“Skank.”
The insults continue, and Daphne seems to derive great enjoyment from convincing everyone that I must have had some secret affair with Francois.
Did she doctor the pictures and the video? Because I’m pretty sure that has to be a criminal offense. Not only is it a deepfake of me, but it should also qualify as revenge porn.
I scroll down to the last messages. After a full afternoon of chats calling me all names on the planet and making fun of my pregnancy, the conversation died down and shifted to questions about school.
My hands are balled into fists, still in disbelief at what I saw.
Fuck you, Daphne!
She knows I’m in that chat. She did this intentionally so I could see it. But what did she think she would gain from it?
My embarrassment.
Even if I deny that’s me, I doubt I will convince too many people.
Itching to respond, I click on the video and hit reply.
“Ha-ha-ha, nice try with the deepfake. I’ve never touched that slimy Francois. My lawyer will be in touch.”
The text is immediately seen by person after person. Yet no one comes to my defense. Instead, the replies are calling me out for saying Francois is slimy.
“How can you speak ill of the dead?” one message reads.
The conversation I had with Sin about Francois at the funeral comes to mind. What had he said? That he was known to take pictures and videos of girls without consent and spread them around.
Daphne must have gotten that video from his stash and superimposed my face on it.
Bitch.
“Agh!” I cry out loud, frustrated, annoyed, and most of all, angry.
Fucking bitch. Next time I see her, I’m going to mop the floor with her.
Or perhaps I should ask Sin to get rid of her for me. Which, at the moment, is rather tempting.
More messages call me out, and I’m already too annoyed to read on. I close my computer and plop myself on the bed, kicking at my pillow and screaming at the top of my lungs.
“Fuck you, Daphne!”
Alas, even my vocal exercises don’t seem to help too much.
My heart is erratic, and adrenaline pumps through my veins. If I weren’t so pregnant, perhaps I would have already gone in search of Daphne to punch her in the face.
As I lie in bed, I continue to make up scenarios in which I confront Daphne and give her a sound beating. It’s only when I’m out of ideas and a little bit calmer that I glance at the luggage I’d returned with and remember the odd journal I’d found.
Grabbing it from a hidden sleeve, I prop my pillows up and start reading.
I ruffle through the first pages and read the name.
Agatha Marchand. 1760.
The script, though cursive, is neat and clear, so much so that I have no trouble reading it.
I flip to the next page.
The journal starts when she is sixteen.
Agatha talks about growing up with her neighbor’s son, Elroy, who was the same age as her.
They had known each other since they were babies, and they were always inseparable.
He was a playful and daring boy, and though she was always the more cautious one, she somehow ended up roped in his grandiose yet crazy plans—like sneaking out at night to explore a supposedly haunted mansion nearby, climbing up trees to make a tree house, and even swimming naked in the river.
Their parents indulged their friendship and even encouraged it. They were the only children of similar age in the area, and they only had each other.
But after puberty, things started to change. For both of them.
Agatha noticed her feelings shift from friendship to love.
One day, on the cusp of her seventeenth birthday, she decided to confess her feelings to Elroy and hoped he felt the same. She was sure that when they reached maturity, their parents would support them getting married.
It was a hot spring day when Agatha and Elroy went to the river. This time, as they slowly undressed to get into the water, she noticed a reticence in Elroy’s movements, and an odd expression on his face as he was watching her.
He seemed to blush when she went to remove her dress. Even though she was only in her shift, he was too flustered to look at her.
Agatha then decided to be the daring one, and she called out to him.
“Look at me,” she said, grabbing his chin and turning his face so she could look into his eyes.
He did so, but his entire face was flushed red.
“I love you,” she told him then.
“I love you, too,” he replied casually.
Agatha felt annoyed at this, thinking he wasn’t understanding she meant a different type of love, not merely that of friends.
“I am in love with you,” she clarified.
Elroy’s eyes widened, and he stared at her in shock for moments on end. The boy who’d never stuttered a day in his life was now suddenly at a loss for words.
Agatha felt a stab of disappointment at realizing he might not feel the same way. But slowly, he offered her a reply.
“I-I’m in love with you, too. I’ve been in love with you forever.”
That day, they shared their first kiss.
Their parents welcomed the relationship, and they were soon engaged to be married.
A wedding date was set for spring 1762.
Both Agatha and Elroy were excited to start their life as newlyweds. Perhaps a little too excited.
My eyes widen when I get to a certain passage that recounts their first night together. It was winter, months before the wedding, and they’d snuck around at night to the stables.
Agatha doesn’t spare too many details when she writes about their first time together, how awkward and painful it was at first, but how lovely and fulfilling it ended up being after their second attempt.
She writes that her mother would have her head if she knew she’d anticipated her vows, but that she cannot find it in herself to regret it because it was Elroy, her sweet, beloved Elroy.
But the happiness did not last.
My heart is in my throat as I read on about the soldiers who arrived at their home, looking to draft young men into the British Army. The war against France was raging, and they needed more manpower. Any man over the age of sixteen was to be conscripted into the army.
Agatha begged Elroy not to go but soon understood that if he defied the orders, he would be arrested and executed.
So, Elroy went to war.
At first, he wrote to her as often as he could.
But a few months after he’d gone, the letters stopped.
It was early 1763 when the war officially ended, and still, there was no word of him.
She assumed the worst. His family suggested he might have found himself another girl and run away, but Agatha knew better. Her dear Elroy would never do that.
In March 1763, word finally reached them.
Elroy was dead. He’d died some months prior, shot in the head.
Agatha was inconsolable. Everyone went in mourning.
Months passed. Her family tried to cheer her up. She wouldn’t go out, would barely eat or drink.
Eventually, they surprised her with an announcement—their one last attempt at reaching her. They’d arranged another marriage for her with some lawyer from Boston.
Agatha was aghast that her parents would even try that.
She was still lost to grief, but as her new wedding approached, she realized she must do something to get herself out of the situation, which she saw as a betrayal to Elroy.
So she did the only thing she could.
She took the veil.
She joined St. Anselm Convent, and she became Sister Agatha.
But she never forgot about Elroy. She never forgot about her beloved, nor did she give up hope that one day they would be reunited.
Except the opportunity came to her much sooner than expected.