Page 104 of Sinister

A gasp escapes the woman as he presses himself to her from behind, thrusting.

My eyes widen.

What is this?

My stomach turns.

What are they doing to her?

Before I can process it, two more of the cloaked figures step forward, reaching into their robes. The woman’s hands rise, as if to receive something.

I never get to see what.

Darkness blinds me.

A hand presses firmly over my face, smothering my sight, muffling my breath.

Someone leans in close, breath warm against my ear.

“Don’t make a sound,” he whispers.

That voice⁠—

I know that voice.

“Come. We need to get out of here,” he whispers, pulling me away from the horrifying scene I had just witnessed.

We move quickly, retracing my steps toward the place where I fell, but instead of helping me climb out, he bypasses the crumbled stones and leads me deeper into the tunnel.

Hidden in the shadows, he opens a concealed door and gently pushes me through it before taking my hand again, guiding me through a series of narrow, winding passages cloaked in darkness.

I can’t see where I’m going, have no idea where we’re headed—but somehow, the fact that it’s him leading me fills me with a strange sense of trust.

Foolish, maybe.

But he’s alive, and right now, that’s all I need.

I don’t know how long we walk. Time loses meaning in the dark. Then, at last, he opens another door and pulls me into a small, dimly lit room.

Two candles burn low on a table. There are no windows. One bed, one chest of drawers, and a desk littered with crumpled papers. The place looks like a prison: bare, cold, isolated.

“Is this where you’ve been hiding?” I ask as he quietly shuts the door behind us.

He locks it, then peeks through a tiny slit in the wood, making sure no one has followed. “What are you doing here, Petra?” he asks without turning around. “Why did you come?”

“To see if you were alive,” I murmur, the words coming out awkwardly, uncertain.

“Well,” he says, facing me, “you’ve seen. I’m alive.”

His voice is cold. Angry. But why would he be angry at me when he’s the one who went missing?

“Why didn’t you say anything?” My voice is suddenly stronger. “Why didn’t you come to me? After the bodies were found in the square . . . after everything?”

“It’s not safe,” he replies. “Not for me, and not for you. Please believe me—it wasn’t on purpose. If I could have reached out, I would have. But if anyone sees me, it won’t end well.”

“I know,” I whisper. “But I was worried about you.”

Something in him softens at my words. His shoulders drop slightly, and I finally take a good look at him.