Page 230 of Sinister

“They identified the body,” he says quietly.

“The chopped-up one from the town square?” I ask.

He nods. “It was François.”

“What?” I whisper, stunned.

He comes to my side and pulls me into his arms. “This is so fucked up,” he mutters.

“But why François? What could he have done?” I whisper.

“I don’t know, but everyone is terrified. They think someone’s targeting students,” he says. “They’re even considering canceling classes for the rest of the term.”

“What?” I blink. “Canceling classes?”

He nods. “Even if the school doesn’t go through with it, I doubt many parents will want their kids coming back. Not with an unknown danger out there.”

“You’re right,” I murmur, shaking my head. “This is . . . I don’t understand.”

“I don’t either. But the students have already gathered in the town square to place candles and flowers where he was found. His parents are already planning the funeral.”

“One too many funerals lately,” I mutter under my breath.

“And we’ll have to go to this one, too.”

“Do we have to?”

“Of course. He was our colleague, wasn’t he?”

“Was he?” I grumble. “Never liked him anyway.”

“Petra!” Sin exclaims, half-shocked.

“What? I feel bad that he’s dead, of course. But it’s not like I’m going to miss him. I don’t think anyone will. All his friendships were surface-level anyway.”

He stares at me for a second, stunned. Then chuckles. “My, my. You’re so bloodthirsty all of a sudden.”

I shrug. François has always been mean to me. Why should I feel sorry for him?

“What do you have there?” he asks, pointing to the piece of paper next to me.

Damn it.

I should have hidden it when I had the chance, before I got distracted by his sudden appearance, his perfect face, and that infuriatingly perfect body.

I mentally berate myself, blaming it on hormones. Too many hormones, thanks to you-know-who.

“Oh, that . . .” I trail off as he picks up the paper.

“This is a list of everyone that’s been killed so far—or at least the ones we know about,” I say quickly, grabbing a pen to add François’s name next to the previously unidentified body from the town square.

“This is quite the detective work you’ve done,” Sin murmurs, running a finger over the table I’ve compiled. “But how would you know about these?” he asks, pointing to the nineteenth-century murders.

It would be so easy to say I saw them in my dreams.

But that would open a whole other can of worms I’m not ready to deal with. I’d have to admit I know about past-life Sin, about his powers, and about his involvement in those deaths. And what if he is the same Sin—and never died at all? I’m not ready for that conclusion. Not yet.

I need more proof. More facts. Something undeniable.