Page 145 of Sinister

“Yes! His death came completely out of the blue. I mean we couldn’t know something like that would happen. How could anyone know?” There’s an almost hysterical edge to my voice, but I’m beyond caring at this point.

This time, both the detectives nod thoughtfully before Fiona says, “All right. If you think of anything, please let us know. You already have my card.” Here she pauses, her eyes probing mine. “Anything else you think we should know?”

Why do I have this nagging feeling that they doubt my innocence? How on earth could they think I’m capable of something so brutal?

“Sure, if I think of anything, I’ll tell you,” I say, trying to steady my voice. “Can I go now?”

Phil gives me a bracing smile, though it doesn’t really do much to loosen the tight knot of anxiety in the pit of my stomach.

“Of course, of course!” he exclaims magnanimously, escorting me to the door while Fiona starts looking up something on her phone and Mr. Rhodes stares out the window with a conflicted expression.

“Thank you, Petra,” Phil says warmly as I step outside. “We really appreciate your cooperation. Stay safe, and don’t forget to reach out if you remember anything else!” With those last words delivered in the high-pitched register of a TV commercial, he shuts the door behind him.

On my way back to class, Sin accosts me by the lockers.

“How did it go?” His eyes are wide in shock and concern, but the arm he puts on my shoulder is warm.

“They think I know more than I’m letting on,” I reply in a shaky voice, though I’m not as spooked by the detectives’ questions as I am with the thought of possibly more crimes looming on the horizon.

“I wouldn’t worry so much, Petra,” Sin responds in an offhand manner, the previous tension vanishing from his face. “Sounds like they are just pulling at straws for now.”

“How can you be so sure?” We have fallen in step, and our feet automatically lead us to the east wing—where stands the willow tree guarding the secret path to the crypt.

“Well, they must be under a lot of pressure to find a suspect, right?” Sin says in a reasonable tone, as if we are discussing a simple math problem and not the gruesome deaths of our classmates. “But they don’t have anyone in custody yet, so obviously they’re freaking out and trying to strong-arm all his friends in the hopes that somebody would crack.”

“Okay, but that would work only if the killer” —how strange the word sounds— “were one of us? You don’t think it’s a student, do you?”

“Maybe, maybe not. That’s what we’re going to find out,” Sin replies in a firmer tone, and I can see that he is mulling something over. There is a faraway look in his eyes that I have come to recognize by now.

“What are you thinking?” I ask curiously.

At this point, we have reached the shaggy canopy of the willow, and already I can feel myself relaxing. Birdsong weaves through the air here as starlings, warblers, and larks fly in and out of the tree’s knotted enclave.

“Not thinking, just feeling. A sense of guilt, you could say . . .” Sin replies hesitantly, watching the flight of a lone skylark against the solid network of branches around it.

“But why do you feel guilty?” Again, a strange question to ask, but one that sets off something ticking at the base of my throat, as if I am experiencing a sense of fear without knowing where the danger is.

“Think about it, Petra: the bodies of Edwin and Harry? The way they were all brutalized? It can’t be a coincidence, right? I mean—” here he looks around and lowers his voice— “you saw the paintings in the crypt. It’s that goddamned secret society all over again!”

He’s visibly shaken now, as if trying to banish some awful image from his mind.

“And my family is one of those allegedly involved back in the day. What if someone I know . . .” his voice trails away; he’s obviously refraining from saying, “What if someone I know—maybe daddy or mommy themselves—is going around killing and mutilating school kids?”

For a moment, we stand there in tense silence.

“Well, I don’t know, have you noticed anyone in your family behaving suspiciously lately?” I do my best to mimic Phil’s tone of pompous joviality. And it works. Sin snorts loudly, and we both break down laughing.

“Wow, that was spot on!” Sin says, pretending to wipe tears of mirth from his face. “You’re getting pretty good at this.”

“You know what? I think so, too.” I had never thought my sense of humor would turn this dark, but here we are, so I might as well have some fun. “That’s my backup plan in case I don’t make it to design school,” I manage to say between bouts of laughter. “I’m gonna enroll at Quantico or something.”

We stand around chuckling for a couple more minutes before I speak again.

“For real, though, we need to have another look at those paintings, Sin. I’ve got this feeling that there’s more to see in that horrid cavern. Something that will tell us what’s about to happen.”

“You’re so sure something’s about to happen,” Sin remarks as we sidle into the secret passageway that leads down to the hidden stairs descending into St. Anselm Hall’s hidden crypt.

“Maybe I’m just too paranoid or something,” I reply with a casualness I don’t actually feel. “Still, it’s worth checking out the paintings again.”