Page 237 of Sinister

If Kimaris—Sin’s name in the past—never died . . .

Then we’re talking about someone who’s immortal.

And then something else strikes me.

“Mom, I’ve never asked you this before, but why did you name me Petra?”

It’s been bothering me: the fact that I share the name and face of past-life Petra. I used to think it was coincidence. But now?

My mom smiles fondly. “Oh, that’s quite a story, actually.”

She softens, the mood shifting.

“We were visiting Vatican City, and my water broke right there in the crypt under St. Peter’s Basilica. We tried to call for an ambulance, but nothing was working as the phone lines were down. The whole tour group was panicking. I wasn’t even due yet—only eight and a half months—so we never expected it. We didn’t even think we could fly that far along, but the airline said it was all right. That’s why we accepted the trip in the first place.”

“You accepted the trip? What do you mean?”

“We won it, actually. It was a prize for a random competition your father entered. A very strange chain of events, if you think about it. But it all led to you.”

“Right,” I say. “So you won a trip to the Vatican and were underground in the crypt.”

“Yes.” She nods. “And there was this really odd blackout. No way to call for help. We were terrified. No one in our group had medical experience. But coincidentally, Kimaris was there.”

“Coincidentally,” I murmur as the pit in my gut widens to a chasm.

“Yes! Can you believe it?” she exclaims. “He was there alone, visiting. He had some kind of medical training and stepped in to help with the birth. It was easy, shockingly easy. You came into the world wailing in a crypt.” She laughs.

“And the name?”

“Oh, yes. Your father and I couldn’t agree on a name. We started bickering while I was holding you, and then Kimaris said, ‘Why don’t you name her Petra—for the place she was born?’ Isn’t that a lovely story, Petra?”

“Right. Yes. Very . . . nice.”

But as I stare at her, as I take in everything she’s told me, several things become terrifyingly clear:

One: Sin—past-life Sin—is immortal.

Two: He knew I would be reborn.

Three: He orchestrated my birth beneath St. Peter’s Basilica to ensure I would be named Petra.

Four: He engineered my parents’ move to Radcliffe and my enrollment at St. Anselm Hall.

Sin did. My Sin.

And yet, even knowing this, it’s hard to reconcile the sweet, charming boy I’ve come to know with this centuries-old manipulator.

“I really am sorry for how I reacted before, Petra,” my mother says. “I don’t want you to feel alone. I know what it’s like to be young and pregnant. You have to be ready—people will judge you.”

“I know,” I reply almost mechanically.

“But your father and I . . . well, we want to be there for you. We talked, and we’re sorting out the business. We’ll take some time off. Is it okay if it takes a few days to get things in order? We want to focus on you now.”

My mouth practically hits the floor. “You want to take time off from the company?”

“Yes. You were right—we haven’t been there for you, not like you deserved. And I want to fix that. Before it’s too late. Before we become strangers.”

“That’s very kind of you. Thank you, Mom.”