Page 140 of Sinister

I am harboring secrets that could threaten my living situation with my parents.

I am not making much progress with Ms. Matthews’s assignment, either.

Yet I know that confiding in Amelia, finally telling someone my secret, was one of the saner decisions I have made as of late. Feeling a bit more composed, I close my eyes for a moment, allowing Amelia’s (hopefully) honest advice to sink in.

The road I found myself on was not only the one less traveled but also the most riddled with false steps and deceptive snares.

But at least I’m not walking it alone.

A clear sky heralds the next day, and the morning light bathes a bleak landscape. Overnight, trees have bent and bowed to the ground, some even getting uprooted entirely and blocking important streets in town.

I wake up to the blare and bustle of roadside equipment and workers sawing off fallen trees up and down the neighborhood. My parents are still not home, and for once, the quiet house feels like a refuge from all the noise.

I’ve just finished whipping up some French toast grilled cheese—yes, it’s exactly as decadent as it sounds; instead of two slices of bread, I use two slices of egg-dipped fried bread—when the doorbell rings.

My heart skips a beat, and my belly flops around in anxiety.

Briefly, I wonder how the butterflies-in-the-stomach thing works when you’re pregnant, but before I can meander down that tangent, I have already opened the door.

And what do you know, Sin is standing there, a bouquet of flowers in one hand and a stylishly wrapped present in the other.

He looks apologetic, his eyes soft and gentle when they land on me.

This is such a stark contrast to his intense brooding from last night that I am lost for words at first.

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PETRA

“Sin,” I finally manage to say. “W-what are you doing here?”

“I came to say sorry,” he replies smoothly, holding out the bouquet toward me, and I notice he has taken care to fill it with orchids and poppies, the sly man. “For yesterday. I was way out of line at the funeral, and afterward . . .” Here he pauses to give me a scorching look that almost makes my legs quiver. “I was rude and overbearing. Please forgive me,” he finishes simply.

I don’t know what to say, so I take the flowers and take in their smell. “Thank you, Sin,” I reply after a while. “For the flowers, and the apology. They have been well received.”

I stand aside and gesture for him to enter the house.

“And I also brought you this,” he adds as he steps into the living room. He’s holding out the present. “I remember you mentioned this painter once, the one who trained . . . who was it now? Goya? Anyways, I found this painting and thought of you.”

He’s kidding, I think in complete disbelief. Sin is referring to an unnamed mentor of the Spanish painter Francisco Goya, widely regarded as one of the first truly modern painters.

On one of our dates, I had mentioned how much I love the artist’s brushwork and complex use of light and shadows. Surely, he wasn’t really paying attention?

So thinking, I unwrap the package carefully. And a loud gasp slips from my lips when I see the piece Sin has carefully wrapped up: Titled Sinful Desires, it’s the long-rumored last painting by Goya’s brilliant master.

The title evokes something in my mind, a long-lost memory that prods at my consciousness. I’ve seen this before, haven’t I? I’ve seen it in the flesh, no?

But as soon as that memory tries to poke its head, it’s gone.

Instead, I continue to marvel at the piece in front of me.

My breath catches. “Sin, I can’t believe this! Where did you even find this painting?” I gush.

Sin is beaming at my obvious enthusiasm, yet there is no trace of self-importance.

Instead, he looks genuinely pleased to have elicited such a response from me.

But I can hardly remember to thank him before my attention is completely caught up in the frame before me: the solitary figure of a girl walking down a windy English moor captured in such dramatic, gothic detail that it would put the best landscapists to shame (J. M. W. Turner be damned).