Page 149 of Sinister

“It explains why those paintings were hidden away,” Sin theorizes with a fervent glint in his eyes. “Maybe they were documenting their actions for others to understand their suicide after they were dead.”

“Hmm, I’m not entirely sure about that theory. Let’s dig around some more,” I reply.

We resume our search. The next discovery, regrettably, is mine.

“Sin, I found something!” When he hurries over to my seat, I point to an old newspaper article on my screen. “There was a fire at a house party fifteen years ago. Five people died.”

“And that’s exactly like the second painting!” Sin exclaims, grasping my shoulder. “The fire . . . the number of victims . . . it’s all there.”

“Sin, if the first incident happened nineteen years ago and then this one took place fifteen years ago, that means whoever’s behind these murders can’t be someone our age.”

Sin looks thoughtful as he skims through the article on my screen. “Yup, that’s what I was thinking, as well. The deaths have to be the work of someone older, someone who’s been planning this for a long time.

“And since the murders occurred randomly fifteen and nineteen years ago, I doubt it has anything to do with that nonsense about the semicentennial sacrifices.”

Silence ensues.

He has that look on his face, the one he gets when he’s pondering over some unpleasant idea that he’s hesitant to vocalize.

So I ask, “What are you thinking?”

“I think we need to dig deeper into my family’s history,” Sin says after a few more seconds of silence have slid by. “Maybe there are other documents or records we could get our hands on. And my parents, they might know something. I think we should have a chat with them.”

“Sin, are you sure that’s a good idea?” I rush to ask this question because meeting the Arnoult family is a prospect that fills me with bone-chilling anxiety. “What if your parents don’t know anything, or worse, what if they don’t like me and⁠—”

“Relax, they’re gonna love you!” Sin says in a teasing voice before assuming a more serious expression. “I mean it, Petra, you’re everything they adore: lovely, stylish, well-read. They’ll be thrilled to meet you, I promise.”

When I still look hesitant, he adds, “And you’ll like my sister, Marie; she’s just great. If you feel awkward around my mom and dad, you can always just hang with her. She will make you feel right at home.”

“All right, Sin, we’ll see if your parents know something.”

I sound reluctant because I am. In fact, I’m so flustered that I almost forget about the morning’s discoveries from the old newspaper articles because of the impending visit to Chez Arnoult.

What will his parents be like? I know that they are a family of academics and generationally wealthy curators, but are his mom and dad like the other rich families in Radcliffe: politely condescending and bitingly particular about their preferences? What if Sin’s parents don’t prefer me?

As these thoughts race across my mind, my stomach churns all of a sudden.

Lately, I have been feeling increased pressure around my lower stomach, and these pangs are often accompanied by bouts of nausea.

Presently, I take a deep breath, but a sudden kick in my stomach makes me wince.

Sin notices immediately.

“Petra, are you okay?” he rushes to my side and starts stroking my back, as if out of instinct. “You look pale.”

“I’m fine,” I say dismissively, but he clearly doesn’t believe me. And besides, I feel another jolt of pain and the attendant feeling of wooziness. “It’s just . . . I’ve been feeling a bit sick lately.”

“Ah shit, I’m an idiot!” Sin exclaims so loudly I almost forget my physical discomfort. “You must be under so much stress—first the deaths and then the detectives nosing around, pulling you out of class. No wonder you’re so strung up, Petra.”

He swoops in and picks me up before I even know what’s happening.

“Sin, what are you doing?” I cry out, but he has already placed me down on the plush couch in the living room.

“What I should I have done much before!” he replies with a stern expression, but his eyes have a mischievous twinkle in them. “Prepare to be pampered.”

And with this declaration, he sits down near my feet and starts massaging my soles.

“Oh, wow, that feels good,” I blurt out without thinking. Because fuck, does that feel good!