Page 229 of Sinister

Then, fifteen years ago, there was the house party where several attendees died in a fire. This incident is eerily preserved in the painting hidden on the walls in the tunnels.

A year ago, the Blackwell family perished from what was ruled a gas leak. I’m still questioning whether this had anything to do with the town’s ritualistic history—or if it was just a tragic accident.

And yet, something nags at me.

Children survived in both that incident and the house party fire. In fact, in all these older cases, the innocent were spared.

Until now.

Edwin. Harry. The unidentified dismembered man in the town square. And the unnamed victims from the religious community.

Once I’ve finished laying out all the facts, I stare at the page, deep in thought.

Sin had mentioned that the town believes a murder must happen every couple of decades—that some sort of ritual is expected. He also suggested that some past deaths might’ve gone unnoticed, or been explained away as accidents.

And yet, the deaths I’ve listed . . . they don’t follow a pattern. Not clearly, at least.

Next to Rutherford and Underwood’s names, I write plainly: Killed by Snowden. They’re the only two victims for whom we know the murderer, but their deaths are still relevant. They connect to the broader mystery.

For the obelisk and mausoleum victims, I add an asterisk and note that they weren’t good people. According to Sin, they were chosen specifically because of their pasts—because of some wrongdoing.

So what about the rest?

The alumni mass suicide from nineteen years ago—did those people also carry dark secrets? I mark that case for further research.

I’ll need to find out more about the victims’ backgrounds. I’ll do the same for the house party attendees and the Blackwell family.

If Sin’s account of selective punishment is accurate, they, too, should have had something to hide.

But that brings me back to Edwin and Harry.

Barely eighteen. Children, really. Why them? Why now?

If children had been spared before, why not now? Was an exception made? Or was this something else entirely?

And what about the religious community victims? So much of it still makes no sense.

Frustrated, I put the pen down and let out a long sigh. There’s something here, I can feel it, but it’s just out of reach.

We know one killer: Snowden. Then there are the nineteenth-century suicides, facilitated by past-life Sin. But the murders from nineteen years ago? Sin wasn’t even born then. And fifteen years ago, at the time of the house party, he would have been, what—four? He couldn’t have done anything . . . unless . . .

Unless he never died.

Unless Sin sold his soul for immortality.

A shiver works its way through me.

A noise in the back of the apartment draws my attention. A door opens and closes: the one that leads down to the tunnels beneath the cemetery.

Then Sin appears.

I hold myself still, watching him approach with cautious eyes. These recent murders have no explanation . . . unless Sin—this Sin—never truly died in the past.

“Hey there,” I manage to say. It hurts to speak, but I force a smile, not wanting him to suspect anything. Not until I have something concrete.

“Sweetheart,” he starts, setting down a bag of takeout on the table. He looks tense.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.