Page 173 of Sinister

“I think we’re getting an A+ for this,” Sin says in a satisfied tone as we finish up the draft and send it to Ms. Matthews.

“Really? I’ve heard she rarely hands those out,” I reply while trying to bite into a blueberry muffin at the same time.

“Trust me, I’ve got a feeling about this,” Sin replies with a sparkling grin as he rereads the paper for the umpteenth time.

Just then, my attention is drawn outside the large diner windows.

A procession of dark-clad figures moves down the street wearing solemn expressions and severe-looking costumes, like they walked out of the set of some documentary on the esoteric ways of some religious community.

I am particularly struck by the harsh lines on the faces of the elderly, how they look fierce and unwelcoming, as if resentful of those who do not walk the righteous road with them. And then there are the women, all wearing a thin veil made of lace that semi-covers their features.

“Sin, what’s with those people?” I whisper, patting him on the arm. “What’s going on out there?”

“Oh, that’s the Sunday service,” he answers casually, barely giving the group more than a glance. “They’re heading to church. It’s the Puritans.”

“They’re real,” Sin continues, leaning back slightly as he observes the group. “But they’re not just a story; they’ve got their own little enclave. They have self-appointed themselves the guardians of the town’s northern part, where they live in their own communities, completely cut off from everyone else. It’s probably why you haven’t seen much of them.”

Now the crowd is passing right outside the diner window where we are sitting. I see some children among the crowd. I know that I haven’t seen them in school. Do they even go to school?

“So, they really don’t interact with outsiders?” I ask out loud.

“Not much,” Sin explains. “They keep to themselves and have their own strict beliefs. My dad told me about this. If they even suspect you’re not a part of their community, they’ll avoid you like the plague.”

“I wonder what they think about what’s been happening around here. The deaths, mutilations⁠—”

“Probably don’t care,” Sin cuts in smoothly, his tone remaining wholly unaffected by the news he’s delivering. “Or they’d just write it off as the consequences of living a sinful life. That’s how they think.”

“Gosh, that’s bleak,” I reply, shaking my head.

“That’s the thing about their beliefs,” Sin says in a strangely quiet voice. “They think they’re holier than everyone else. And that by remaining untouched by the rest of us heathens and barbarians, they can remain ‘pure.’”

“That’s fucked up,” I say, absent-mindedly nibbling on an almond cookie.

I glance back toward the window, watching the procession of Puritans, their black umbrellas bobbing in the wind like ominous balloons.

“You know Edwin was part of the church, right?” Sin says after a while.

When I sit up with a jolt and look at him in wide-eyed shock, he continues.

“Yeah, he was. I heard my dad saying something along the same lines the other day. It’s hard to accept that he was also a victim.”

“Bu-but we had that project together.” My words are as unsure as my thoughts. “He didn’t seem like . . .”

“. . . like he belonged to a doomsday cult that believed in raining hellfire and brimstone on all unbelievers?” Sin asks snappily before giving me a wan smile. “I didn’t know him as well as you, but I know that he went to church with these folks on certain Sundays. Seen him with my own two eyes,” Sin finishes with a deft little nod as he looks at the crowd outside and takes a sip of his Americano.

“Wait, what about Harry? Was he a . . . a Puritan, too?”

Sin’s expression turns serious, and his voice low. “As far as I’ve heard, he wasn’t practicing, but his family has ties to them. His mother’s family has been around for generations. So if there’s a connection there, I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“Wow, you think you know somebody,” I mutter under my breath as memories of Harry flash across my eyes: how we would crack jokes at the lunch table, how we took turns buying snacks for our library study sessions.

A whole lot of despair threatens to drown me under its bilious cloak, so I put my arms around Sin and bury my face in his neck.

Is it a matter of instinct or will?

Doesn’t matter, I tell myself. For now, I feel safe.

The next day, we attend a very important appointment together.