Page 114 of Sinister

He’s well and truly gone.

As I watch the earth swallow his casket, a hollow sob balloons up in my chest, and I feel a swell of tears forming a lump in my throat.

This can’t be happening, oh God, no.

But dirt has been deposited over the departed, and the gathering begins to disperse, mourners retreating under umbrellas, their figures dissolving into the misty landscape.

When my knees start wobbling from the strain of my despair, I, too, turn away from the grave and start to walk back toward the car.

Like other graveyards in the more affluent parts of town, this place is stately and dignified. The burial plots are neatly lined and spacious, and the whole compound spans several acres.

Stone benches line the main pathways, and one can often sight a hunched, desolate figure or two perched on them, though today they stand empty and forlorn. The iron fence surrounding the area is covered by the cursive calligraphy of ivy vines. And the wrought-iron gates at the entrance and exit are similarly rusty.

Even steeped in despair, my senses are on high alert and take in every minute detail around me: the looming, moss-covered obelisks carved from granite, disfigured marble angels guarding the final resting places of doomed men and women (and in the worst cases, children), the crunch of gravel underfoot . . .

I am observing everything with a frantic attention that I haven’t known since I stopped taking Adderall a few years ago.

And as I move through the cemetery, I keep feeling that I’m being watched.

No, I’m certain of it.

Eyes seem to follow my every step, hidden behind the veil of rain and the silhouette of gravestones. I glance back over my shoulder, but the fog and shadows blur everything into an indistinct, menacing haze.

Am I being followed? I wonder, and a chill trickles down the nape of my neck.

The feeling of being watched intensifies, so I start rushing, trying my best to avoid slipping on the rain-slick ground. I glance back, my pulse echoing in my ears.

The central knot of mourners has thinned, but the SAH Club kids linger at the edge of a ragged crowd made up of St. Anselm Hall students.

Are they watching me? I wonder next, and the idea causes a clattering panic that speeds up my footsteps. Fear tightens its grip on my gut as I hurry, the rain blurs my vision, and the sound of rhythmic squelching just behind me catches my attention for the first time.

Thinking you are being followed is nothing compared to realizing that your suspicions are true before you can reach a safe space. In my case, the waiting car.

At the hurrying sounds behind me, I let out a loud gasp, and my umbrella slips from my hand, busily rattling on the unpaved path. But I don’t dare stop and pick it up.

Just then, a firm grip encircles my arm, and before I can say anything more than, “What the fuck?” . . .

I’m tugged into the gloomy fenced-in space inside a mausoleum. While I struggle to free my arm, I look up to see Sin, his clothes soaked and eyes dark with an inscrutable emotion.

“Petra, we need to talk,” he insists.

Talk, talk . . . his voice echoes slightly within the stone walls.

“You’ve been ignoring me,” he adds.

“I don’t want to talk, Sin. Fucking let me go.” I shake off his arm and step backward.

As luck would have it, my feet are almost swiped out from under me as they glide over a mossy patch of ground. Sin catches my flailing arm and pulls me toward him.

Outside, the rain patters down on the mausoleum roof, creating a sonorous mask over our clandestine encounter. Our faces are inches apart in that slightly damp, slightly warm air buffeting around the house of the dead.

In the next moment, I shrug off his grasp on my arm and step away—only this time, keeping my eyes well trained on the ground so I don’t slip again.

“Thanks for that,” I say in a clipped tone, “but I need to get going.”

Sin’s face softens, and his eyes are pleading as he says, “Petra, please. You have to believe me. I’ve never been with anyone else. I have no interest in anyone else.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I reply indifferently, while my stomach flips around in nervous tension. “And even if I did, how am I supposed to believe something like that, Sin? After everything I heard at the . . . the fall ball?”