Page 2 of Sinister

When I look back at the scene, I realize that the blue-eyed guy—Sin—has disappeared.

As I stare back up at the grand façade of the house looming above me, its dark stone exterior softened by the moonlight and the glow from the windows, I realize that coming to Elias Rutherford’s party was probably a mistake. I mean, I could have just stayed home and sketched.

On my eighteenth birthday. That even my parents forgot.

Who am I kidding? That last part is the very reason I’m here.

Look, I get that my parents are busy. Their million-dollar tech company wouldn’t function without my father, who is the CEO, and my mother, the CTO. The same company whose skyrocketing revenues bought me the vintage Prada Mary Janes on my feet and my Valentino crossbody.

But they could spare one day, couldn’t they? For their only daughter?

These gloomy thoughts threaten to overtake my mind, even as the bass from the music inside pulses through the air, vibrating in my chest.

I take a deep breath, steeling myself.

Enough of the pity party.

Time for an actual party.

Tonight, I need to do something different. Amelia’s voice echoes through my errant thoughts: “Celebrate your birthday, Petra. You deserve it.”

By now, I have reached the half-open oak doors of the Rutherfords’ mansion. The artist in me can’t help but admire the building’s ornate stonework and looming towers that seem to yawn toward the sky.

As I step up to the door, sounds of the revelry from inside drift into my ears. Someone has put on a Lorde song, and the melody soothes my frazzled nerves.

Hey, maybe this won’t be so bad, I tell myself before taking a deep breath and entering.

Once inside, Lorde’s husky voice resonates in the air. I look around the rooms, hoping against hope to catch a friendly face, at least one kind glance.

Like most students who go to St. Anselm Hall, the extremely elite, private, co-ed school where I spend the larger part of my days with the sons and daughters of billionaires, Elias Rutherford is rich.

Adding to that, he’s the captain of the school football team, the St. Anselm Heroes. Unsurprisingly, his multi-hyphenate status means that any party he throws is sure to blow up into an all-night event.

Tonight, the grand foyer is bathed in a warm golden glow from the chandeliers overhead, and somebody’s set up a smoke machine in a corner of the living room.

Strobe lights cast colorful patches on the walls, and there are people everywhere.

Raucous groups of jocks exchanging lewd jokes, giggling Instagram fashionistas posing in front of the wall-length mirrors in the hallways, stoned punk-rock kids jamming away in the corner of the drawing room . . .

The party has them all in attendance. And abundance.

Normally, the dense, milling crowd would make me feel suffocated. To be honest, I’m already experiencing a faint sense of claustrophobia from all the smoke and mirrors.

Right, time to find a safe corner, my instincts tell me, so I head for the kitchen and pour myself a much-needed drink.

Thankfully, whatever jungle juice these football bros have mixed together warms me up and calms down my nerves, and I lean back against the cool counter, taking a minute to gather myself.

As I try to relax, I again remember my chat with Amelia from earlier today.

I still remember the first time I stumbled into the chatroom on Instafriends. It was late at night, and the house was quiet, except for the AC’s soft hum. It was another birthday made memorable by my parents’ absence.

My fourteenth, if it matters—it obviously didn’t matter to them.

That was the night I had first clicked on the “Misc Midn8 Meets.” I had shied away from all forms of social media before then, probably because of my utterly bleak outlook on most human beings, borne out of a special kind of isolation called “homeschooling.”

But that night, something about the chatroom called to me. It had been relatively empty, with just a few usernames drifting in and out. I hesitated for a moment, then typed a simple message.

Petrified: Hello, anyone here?