Page 148 of Sinister

“We were wrong,” I eventually gasp out. “Edwin’s death wasn’t the first one.”

“Why do you say that?” Sin is beside me, patting my back as I hold my stomach and try not to hurl.

“Do you remember the family that died from a gas leak in their house last year? It was all over the news. The Blackwells, they used to live near the diner, remember? Only the children survived. Everyone else died—the mother, father, and two sets of grandparents.”

Sin’s eyes widen as he finally processes what I’m saying. “Yes, I remember. It was a huge story. All the more so because no one could figure out how the children miraculously survived. Wait . . . are you saying that was connected to this?”

“It has to be,” I reply shakily. “Look at this painting. This is how it happened, right? The family died together in their own home. Don’t you see what this painting means? It wasn’t an accident!”

“But what about the other two paintings? Have those events happened already?”

“I don’t know,” I admit anxiously. “The one with the five people on fire, and the mass suicide—they might be ‘in the works.’ Or they might have happened in the past, but didn’t get as much media attention?”

“Sounds like we need to keep digging,” Sin says with a grim expression. “Perhaps we can find something in the archives.”

To my utter surprise, I reply, “You’re right.”

44

PETRA

Say what you will about the snobbish student body at St. Anselm Hall, they—we—know how to spring back from unspeakable tragedies and get to work.

True to our intent of finding out the twisted homicidal maniac who’s responsible for the deaths of our schoolmates, Sin and I reconvene at my house the next day, our laptops and a stack of local newspapers spread out across the table.

“Right, we need to go through these systematically,” I say with resolve. “Let’s start with major incidents and look for any headline that stands out.”

Sin nods, flipping through another newspaper and scanning the headlines for any notably grisly murders and deaths.

Jesus, what a morbid investigation, I think to myself.

Then my attention shifts to Sin and the focused look on his face. It’s a chilly day, so he has brought me a warm thermos filled with delicious chicken soup. And the most fetching cashmere throw that matches my sea-green pajamas.

My heart flutters at the sight of him: so serious in his perusal of newspapers just because I have a hunch. It’s almost embarrassing to admit how much I have been looking forward to us hanging out together, like we used to do before the fall ball.

“Here’s one,” Sin says suddenly, and I jump a little.

He doesn’t notice, thankfully, because he’s pointing to an online article.

“Nineteen years ago, there was a mass suicide in the town square. Twenty-five people, all at the same time.”

I can’t believe he has found something already, so I go behind him and start reading the article over his shoulder. The details are grisly: how the people—all successful SAH alumni, including some CEOs of large companies—had punctured their carotid artery in the middle of the square, which is barely two blocks away from the SAH compound; how the ambulance had taken forever to reach them because the street had been mysteriously blocked off from all incoming traffic.

By the time emergency personnel reached the scene, all twenty-five were already dead.

“This is it.” A cold shiver runs down my spine. “This matches the painting exactly.”

Though the situation is chilling, I can’t help but feel a modicum of relief that the scene from the painting was not the same as the one in my dream. That would be weird . . . right?

I’m sure it’s just the stress getting to me, so I shouldn’t mind those dreams or give them too much importance. As it stands, in my dream, the suicide of the twenty-five happened in the nineteenth century, not in modern times.

“Apparently, someone told the news crew that these people were part of a cult,” Sin points out. “So does this mean they also met at the crypt?”

“Maybe,” I reply, unconvinced.

The crypt wasn’t known to that many. And if twenty-five people knew about its existence nineteen years ago, there is a high probability that others besides Sin would know about the crypt’s existence and location.

Something doesn’t add up.