Page 163 of Sinister

I look at Marie, who is listening intently, even though she must have heard this story before. “What do you mean?”

Lisa and Tom exchange grave looks, and Tom says, “You see, Marie came into our lives in a different way. She’s adopted. Her parents died when she was just one year old.”

My heart contracts at the thought of the poor girl being orphaned at such a young age. “Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that,” I address the words to Lisa, Tom, and Marie. While the adults look faintly sad, Marie shrugs nonchalantly. “What happened, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Lisa takes a deep breath, but again it’s Tom who answers my question. “They died in the house fire at that party fifteen years ago. You kids must have read or heard about it, I’m sure. Afterward . . .” He looks at Lisa, who squeezes his hand. “We decided to adopt Marie. I mean, can you blame us? Look at her!” He ruffles the girl’s hair.

“Dad, don’t mess my hair!” she cries out before lapsing into a sulk.

But I’m not even listening because the realization hits me hard. The fire we discovered in our research wasn’t just a faceless tragedy; it’s intimately connected to the family with whom I’m eating dinner in this cozy house.

“That’s . . . that’s incredible, Lisa.” I look at Sin with wide eyes, wondering why he hasn’t made the connection yet, but I can see that he looks just as stunned as me.

Perhaps he hadn’t really thought about it before.

“We didn’t expect to lose close friends that night,” says Lisa with a distant look on her face, as if she has traveled back in time. “But Marie becoming part of our family felt like it was meant to be. She filled a void we didn’t think could ever be filled.”

Sin squeezes my hand under the table as I sit there, trying to tie it all together.

“And so, we have lived . . . messily ever after!” announces Marie before throwing a fork at Sin. He ducks out of the way as if he had fully expected the attack and tries to pull on her braid again.

“Sin, M! Don’t fight at the dinner table!” Tom yells at his children while Lisa just looks at her family with a serene, satisfied smile.

After dinner, Sin and I head upstairs to his room, pretending to study while we wait for his parents to go to bed. The plan is to explore the basement and search for his family’s archives once everyone else is asleep and the house has quieted down.

I am disconcerted at the thought of rifling through the belongings of the very nice folks who have welcomed me into their house and fed me a delicious meal, but Sin dismisses all my apprehensions with a wave of his hand.

“Oh, please, it’s not like we are robbing them or something.”

We have reached his bedroom, and I’m dumbstruck at what I see: The room is neat and sparse, almost obsessively so. The walls are mostly bare, the furniture minimal, and there are very few personal items carefully placed around the room.

No dirty socks under the bed, no crumpled shirts or sweaty shorts piled up in a chair, not even an errant pen rolling around without a cap.

“Sin,” I say. “Your room is so . . . tidy. It’s almost like a show model.”

He chuckles. “Yeah, I guess I’m kind of a neat freak. I like keeping things organized.”

“I would not have guessed at all,” I reply, sitting at the edge of his bed. “You didn’t bring me to dinner with a fake family, did you?” The words are supposed to sound like a joke, but I make them sound like a paranoid fancy.

But there is no answer. Instead, Sin closes the door behind us, turns toward me, and falls to his knees, pressing his face gently against my belly.

“Err, Sin?” I whisper, as the warmth of his breath tickles me through my clothes.

“I can’t believe we made a baby, Petra,” Sin’s muffled voice thrums against my stomach. “It’s incredible.”

His words make me feel awkward and unprepared for the enormity of parenthood.

But I try to keep my voice steady as I say, “That’s so sweet of you.”

He looks up at me then, his eyes brimming with such naked wonder that I almost catch my breath. “I just can’t believe it. It’s overwhelming . . . but in a good way.”

When he buries his head back in my lap, I run my fingers through his hair, partly for him and partly for me. How many times had I imagined threading my fingers through his thick locks?

“I’m glad you feel that way. It’s been a lot to handle. But knowing you’re with me makes it easier.”

Regret swells inside me as I remember my lies. I should have been truthful from the start. But I only have my scaredy-self to thank for that particular lie. I was so terrified . . . of him finding out, of everyone finding out, that I preferred to pretend it wasn’t happening.

Yet now, looking into his deep blue eyes and the way he regards me with such adoration, I realize my mistake.