Page 139 of Sinister

No. I didn’t even go to the Planned Parenthood center. I just didn’t have the time.

Petra, this isn’t some chore you put off till your schedule frees up.

I know, Ames, I know. Just—so many bad things started happening, and I just couldn’t.

But you told Sin?

Again, a dry laugh escapes from my lips, and I tell her about my split-second decision to inform Sin that the baby was not his.

But why???

She replies almost instantly.

Why would you do that? He would help if he knew, right?

Would he? This question makes me remember the Sin from last night, who had stormed into my room after me, demanding that he be allowed to “help” me.

Things got even worse, Ames. And I couldn’t tell him.

I write back hesitantly.

Now I have reached the most traumatic part of my story: first, Edwin’s death and then . . . Harry.

My fingers start shaking as I type. Tears stream from my eyes as some strange, choking fear makes my heart clench as I write about the fall ball: my giddy mirth at the start of the evening, dancing with Sin, going to the washroom and overhearing those girls chatting among themselves, confronting Sin, and then finally . . .

The images threaten to overwhelm me completely, but I retain enough gumption to describe the whole ordeal to Amelia.

Petra, what the everloving fuck is happening in that town of yours?

I just know that she’s pacing across her room now.

I take a deep breath, trying to find the right words to convey the absolutely horrifying chaos of that fateful night. But where will the words come from?

Instead, I tell her the real reason I am confessing all this to her.

I need someone to tell me what to do, Ames. I’m in such a mess . . . about this baby. And about Sin.

A handful of minutes pass before her response reaches me. But it is succinct and direct:

Tell. Him.

You sure?

I text back; perhaps I had hoped that she would side with me, though I don’t feel particularly surprised by her advice.

Yes!

It seems to be the popular consensus, all things considered, so I don’t poke around for further assurance.

And also, take care, Petra.

She texts before I can reply to her latest message.

The things happening at St. Anselm Hall . . . they’re beyond disturbing. I hope you’re staying safe.

Am I? It has occurred to me that my behavior over the past few weeks has been anything but cautious.

I have been stealing away to crypts hidden under the school with Mr. Popular, who was prone to the type of personality swings that would put a schizophrenic to shame.