Page 190 of Sinister

“No, no, do tell,” he insists. “You’re saying it might be something supernatural?”

“Yeah.” I nod. “In my dreams, the really grizzly murders—they were committed by this creature. And they weren’t part of the ritual.”

“Not part of the ritual?” he echoes. “But what about the paintings?”

“Yeah,” I say, thinking back. “Now that I really think about it, it doesn’t match, does it? The paintings in the tunnels showed deaths that were brutal, just like what happened to Edwin and Harry.” I sigh, rubbing my forehead. “I don’t know anymore. Maybe I’m crazy. But . . .”

“I think it’s worth considering. At this point, I don’t think any idea is too far-fetched.” Sin smiles at me, small but genuine.

“Thank you for not thinking I’m crazy,” I whisper.

He chuckles softly. “Petra, if you’re crazy, then we all are.”

“It’s just . . . if these dreams I’ve been having are a window into the past, then maybe I can use them to gather more information. Don’t you think?” I suggest.

“You’re right,” he agrees. “We should try to examine them more thoroughly. Tell me more.”

“Well,” I begin hesitantly, “remember those newspaper clippings we found in your family’s basement? The ones about the wealthy people being murdered?”

“Yes.” He nods.

“In my dreams, someone told me that those people weren’t murdered as part of the ritual. They were killed to keep things quiet.”

“To keep things quiet? What do you mean?”

“So, we know now that there were five families involved—five individuals. We have Snowden, Rutherford, Underwood, Haas, and Arnoult.”

“Okay, yes. Go on.”

“Well, in the past—or at least in the version of the past that I saw—Snowden wasn’t one of them, not really. He wasn’t on their side. He was one of the people leading the crusade against Arnoult’s group. And he was the one controlling that creature.”

My heart races as I try to explain.

“The murders happened because, at some point, Snowden had been in cahoots with them. He was interested in the occult, too. But after . . . some disagreement—or maybe after realizing what they truly planned to do with the ritual—he pulled away. He didn’t want to be part of it anymore.”

“So,” he says slowly, “he turned against them.”

“Exactly. He started an offensive, gathering people against Arnoult and his followers, spreading rumors, telling them all sorts of things. And then, one by one, the main players started dying.”

I take a shaky breath.

“First was Rutherford. And apparently, his death was very disturbing.”

Sin leans in. “And after him?”

“Then it was Underwood,” I continue. “Which only left Haas and Arnoult, at least in my dreams. Maybe if we can find out how they died, we’ll uncover more of the truth.”

A light rain has started in the meantime. Pedestrians scurry across the road, and drivers make a beeline for their cars.

I gaze at the water streaming down the window, my mind racing with all sorts of theories.

But despite Sin’s words, an unease festers within me, and I can’t shake the feeling that something—or someone—terrible is still lurking just out of sight, waiting for the chance to strike.

“You know what we can do?” Sin says suddenly, as if the idea has just occurred to him. When I give him a wary look, he hurries to say, “No, no, nothing too outlandish. You remember the mausoleum in the cemetery? The one where we . . . on the day of Harry’s funeral . . .”

He looks abashed, as if trying to remind me of a delicate matter.

And sure enough, I know which place he’s referring to, as a row of images flash across my mind: granite obelisks, mossy tombs, acid-corroded marble angels, the damp-smelling insides of a domed mausoleum, and inside it . . .