Page 23 of Sinister

“Because you speak of curiosity, and that curiosity—” my voice falters— “brought me nothing but suffering.”

His gaze hardens. His posture shifts. No longer the relaxed, amused man from before, he leans forward, his expression dark.

“What do you mean by that?” His voice is slow, deliberate.

“I don’t have to tell you. Please, leave.”

“No. You will tell me,” he commands. “You got caught, didn’t you?”

I try to laugh, but it comes out hollow.

“You got caught,” he repeats, more certain this time, “and it’s my fault, isn’t it? If you hadn’t had that book . . . if you hadn’t been caught with it⁠—”

He suddenly stands and closes the small distance between us. The damp cloth slips from my fingers as I step back, intimidated by the fire in his eyes. Concern.

Why?

Why is he concerned about me? Why would a stranger care? I don’t understand. Not after he was the one who gave me the book, knowing how forbidden it was, knowing what would happen if I was caught with it.

He stops just short of me, his hand reaching out as if to touch my veil. Then, he catches himself and lowers it.

“What happened?” he demands. “What did he do to you?

He hit you, didn’t he?” His hand rises again, his thumb hovering near my face. “Where did he hit you?”

I shake my head. “I don’t understand you. Why are you here? Why are you talking to me? If you know what is going to happen to me, if you know I will be punished, then why are you here? Why are you putting me in danger?” I cry out.

My voice is raw, my throat burning with every word. I cannot hide it anymore. My voice breaks completely, and tears spill down my cheeks, dripping onto my lips, stinging my reopened wounds. I wince at the pain.

“What’s wrong?” he asks quickly, stepping forward. This time, he wastes no time closing the distance. He is just one step away.

I can feel his presence, his warmth—too close. And to my great shame, I don’t step away. Why? I cannot say.

Perhaps it is the concern in his voice. Perhaps it is because, no matter how much I suffer at home, no one has ever looked at me with even a shred of compassion. Even as I lay bleeding in my own house, my brother only glanced at me and said, “Next time, I won’t stop him.”

“Where does it hurt?” the stranger asks, his hand inching closer to my veil.

I swat it aside. “Stop. Get away from me. Leave.”

He doesn’t move.

“You have no idea what will happen if we’re caught together,” I hiss.

“We won’t be caught. No one knows I’m here.”

“No one will know,” I scoff. “Just like they didn’t know about the book.” I glare at him.

“I told you not to get caught, didn’t I?” he says, but this time there’s no smugness in his voice. This time, he looks guilty.

“Maybe you shouldn’t have given me the book in the first place.”

“Why did you take it?” he counters.

“I . . .” I stammer. That is a question I’ve asked myself countless times. Why did I take it?

“Because you were curious,” he says. “Because you want to know. You want more than this.” He gestures to the church. “You’re not meant for this life, Petra.”

My breath catches. “How do you know my name? How do you know anything about me? What gives you the right to say anything about me?”