Page 122 of Sinister

I’ve been wracked with guilt since that night in the catacombs beneath St. Anselm Hall. I replay our time together and barely recognize myself.

Who was that girl? That wanton creature who allowed him such liberties?

My cheeks flush at the memory, and something sharp twists in my stomach.

I should never have let that happen. Not with him, not with anyone.

Yes, I may not be perfectly faithful to my religion, but that doesn’t mean I should’ve risked my safety for a moment of euphoria.

He must wonder why I haven’t come, why I haven’t written back.

He’s probably been waiting for me, night after night.

But how can I go when I now know the most important thing?

He lied to me.

I may be naïve and untried in the ways of the world, but that doesn’t mean he can deceive me in such a blatant way.

He told me he had nothing to do with those rituals, that he’d never invoked anything, never bartered his soul. And yet . . . that thing I saw outside his door?

That thing wasn’t human. It was something else. Something dark, powerful . . . frightening. He was one with the shadows, not a corporeal identity. And the way it had easily lifted Sin off the floor? With inhuman strength?

Now, in hindsight, there’s something unmistakably sinister about Sin. About everything that has happened since I’ve met him in that bookstore.

Yes, I’m drawn to him. Physically.

But beyond that, what do I really know? His name, his profession, what he claimed about his childhood? He could have very well lied about that, and I would be none the wiser.

Twenty-five people are dead. For all I know, he had a hand in it.

And I can’t forget what I saw in the catacombs: those men with that woman, their disturbed actions. Sin swore he’d never been part of anything like that, but I don’t know if I can believe him anymore.

If he lied to me once, what else has he kept hidden?

I remember the argument he had with that . . . entity. He was speaking of doing something, promising something, shouting when the thing spoke ill of someone.

Maybe that someone was me.

Because I did do wrong.

I snuck out. I disobeyed. I was reckless.

I see that now. So let him leave his letters. Let him wait beneath the moonlight. I will not read his words. I will not meet him. Not when I can no longer trust him. Not when I fear he may be involved in something vile and immoral.

But then . . . I shake my head.

I still have the one thing even the devil cannot steal: my will. And I will not be his plaything. I will not be his prey.

Maybe it’s too late for some things, but not everything.

At least I never went to bed with him.

For that, I’m grateful.

I pick up the latest letter. Still sealed. Still untouched.

I walk to the hearth and toss it into the fire.