Page 144 of Sinister

Fiona’s piercing gaze locks onto mine, and this time I struggle to find that cool disdain with which I had spoken to these two previously.

“Petra, we understand this is a difficult time,” Phil starts, his voice carefully neutral. “But we need to talk to you about Harry’s murder and how it connects to Edwin. Now, you were close to both of them, correct?”

“I wouldn’t say ‘close,’ but I knew them both,” I respond in a voice that is only slightly trembling. “Like I told you before, Edwin and I were project partners once, and Harry was a classmate.”

“Just that? A classmate?” Fiona cuts in smoothly, and I don’t like the business tone with which she asks this personal question.

“Well, he was also a friend. If that’s what you’re insinuating.”

That brief spark of annoyance was just what I needed to pull myself together, and now I channel that same anger into fucking around with them the same way they were fucking around with me.

Three can play at this game, I think nastily.

“We aren’t insinuating anything, Petra,” Phil jumps in with the we-are-all-friends-here tone that adults use when they think they are getting along with kids.

Fiona, for her part, is already jotting down notes. “Can you tell us more about your interactions with Harry? Anything that stands out, anything unusual?” She has abandoned all pretenses of being my friend and has reverted to being a cop instead.

“Harry and I didn’t have a lot of classes together, but we did hang out occasionally. We sometimes had lunch together.”

As I speak, memories of our shared lunches send pangs of sorrow through my heart, and my resolve to not cry in front of these pricks starts faltering.

“His family moved around a lot.” It feels grossly wrong to use the past tense when talking of him, so I start counting my breaths to retain some sort of composure.

Phil leans forward with a keen look on his face. “Can we revisit the last bit? Did Harry ever tell you about people he knew before he moved to Radcliffe?”

“N-no, not really. We chatted about school and work and shared interests. We didn’t discuss our home lives, to be honest.”

As far as I can remember, he seemed like his home life was more or less stable, like he was the son of a solid, respectable family who fit right into the general milieu in these parts.

“What about religion? Did he speak to you about that?”

“I’m not sure what that has to do with this,” I say with a frown. “And the answer is no. We did not talk about religion.”

He jots something down.

“And what about the days leading to the fall ball?” Fiona asks this next question. “We were told that Harry asked you to the dance, but you refused. Is that correct?”

“Told by whom?” I snap at her. “And yes, I did turn him down then, but there were no hard feelings. Obviously. Harry wasn’t the kind of guy to hold grudges.”

Though my voice is still level, inside I’m fuming. How dare they ask these disrespectful questions about my friend?

Fiona’s eyes narrow at my heated response. “Petra, I know you’re frustrated and possibly scared. But you have to understand how this looks. You were seen with both victims shortly before their deaths. So it’s in your best interests to provide us with as much information as possible.”

“I can’t pull new information out of thin air, can I?” I almost snarl at her. “And I was with someone else at the ball. Trust me, enough people must have noticed me.”

After all, I had been adorning the arm of Prince Sin Arnoult.

“So I don’t understand the point of throwing these questions at me⁠—”

“We’re not accusing you, Petra,” Fiona cuts in before I can continue my rant.

“But given your connection to both victims, we have to consider all possibilities,” adds Phil, and I wonder if this is a standard line they are so used to throwing out that they don’t even realize when they are speaking in turns and completing each other’s stanzas.

At the same time, I have just remembered the paintings I had seen in the crypt, the ones depicting the alleged sacrifices conducted by the Ouroboros Society.

I remember the painting that had come true most recently: the savagely mutilated body with blood spurting out of all orifices, and how Harry’s body was desecrated in the same way.

“Now, you mentioned in your initial statement that there was no discernible difference in Edwin’s behavior in the days leading up to his death.” Phil’s casual question snaps me back to the present. “Would you say the same for Harry?”