Page 161 of Sinister

47

PETRA

PRESENT DAY

It’s a bright Sunday when Sin and I stop by his house. I have fussed and fretted over what I would wear to the Arnoults’ for the whole of last week. Even then, the floral midi skirt I have finally chosen seems too tacky when we arrive at Arnoult Manor.

It’s a sprawling affair in teal and silver, with ornate arches and modern lighting, the perfect mix of early seventeenth-century austerity and the decadence of the 1920s.

My parents may be rich, but it’s clear these people come from old money.

“Jay Gatsby would have loved this house,” I murmur under my breath, smoothing the pleats of my skirt over and over again.

My anxiety is at an all-time high.

After more eerie dreams with dreams-ensconced-in-other-dreams like a goddamn matryoshka, I am more confused than ever.

There is the information that I know from my day-to-day life, and there is the information from my dreams.

Everything seems to be related to the same weird occult activity happening in Radcliffe, but I am still unsure if my subconscious is making everything up due to the pregnancy hormones or if there might be some truth to it.

Yet the fact that those suicides happened just a couple of decades ago instead of over a century ago like in my dreams tells me I might be simply . . . going crazy.

And if that wasn’t enough, now I have to also face Sin’s parents, and I really don’t know what scares me more: demon-filled dreams or the parents of the guy I’m falling in love with.

“Relax, you look mind-blowing!” Sin assures me, gently squeezing my hand.

“Are you sure? I can rush back and change into something more flattering⁠—”

“What you’re wearing is flattering, Petra,” Sin repeats himself without any visible signs of irritation.

His whole aura has changed since I told him the truth about the baby.

He looks even more boyish and charming these days, his countenance always sunny and his words always sweet.

“Fine, I’ll take your word for it,” I reply with a smile and a quick peck on the cheek before Sin opens the front door.

We step inside, and the warmth of the Arnoult household greets us immediately.

The smell of something delicious wafts from the kitchen, and laughter fills the air. What a stark contrast to my own home.

“Mom, Dad, we’re here!” Sin calls out.

“About time!” a man’s rich baritone issues from the kitchen, shortly followed by Sin’s father: a tall, willowy man with dark blond, tousled hair, sporting a pair of horn-rimmed glasses.

“What took you so long?” says a woman’s voice, and his mother comes out of the kitchen as well. A svelte blond woman with light-blue eyes, she’s dressed in a cozy grey sweater and floor-length Versace skirt.

“Oh, you can blame this one for that,” Sin says with a laugh, pointing at me before giving his mother a kiss on her cheek and hugging his father. “She was convinced that she is not dressed up enough for the occasion.” I blush at his words.

“Nonsense!” his mother replies, coming up to me and putting her arms around me most naturally. “You look absolutely gorgeous, my dear,” she tells me before stepping back. “I’m Lisa, and this is my husband, Tom.”

“It’s so nice to meet you, Petra,” Tom says, reaching out to shake my hand. “My son won’t stop talking about you.” He’s wearing a goofy smile, and I instantly know where Sin gets his manic pixie dream boy energy from.

“Thank you for having me,” I reply easily, as if I’ve known them my whole life. “It’s wonderful to meet you both.”

Before I can say more, a younger girl bounds into the room. “Sin-Sin, the greatest fake!” she hollers before punching Sin’s arm with all the strength she can muster.

“Ouch, that hurt!” Sin cries out, doubling up—or pretending to—in pain. “Ma, she hit me!” he shouts, turning to his mother.