Page 244 of Sinister

He glances at me. “What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. Why did you come to my house and lie to my parents?”

“I never lied,” he replies immediately. “I told them the exact truth. I am the father of your baby, and I’m more than happy to take responsibility. I want to marry you, Petra. You know that.”

“But we’ve never discussed that before.”

“Well, what’s there to discuss when it’s a given?”

“I don’t know—perhaps asking me? I’m sure girls like to be asked instead of being told they’re going to marry someone.”

He glances at me from the corner of his eye. “Would it make you feel better if I asked you?”

“Maybe.”

“Will you marry me, Petra?” he asks then, that same smile still on his face.

I blink. What am I supposed to say now? I can’t very well say no, right?

“See? I’ve asked you. Now it’s all good.”

“But I didn’t answer.”

“You don’t have to answer. I know the answer already.”

He suddenly stops the car and turns to look at me. The smile is gone. His eyes are intense, his face emotionless.

“You are mine, Petra. You will always be mine. You know it, too. There is no escaping me now.”

I stare at him in shock. “That doesn’t sound anything like what a psychotic murderer would say,” I add with dry laughter.

He doesn’t share my amusement.

“Psychotic murderer or not, you’re not getting away from me. You’re mine. You and the baby.” Then, suddenly, he breaks into a smile. “But now your parents like me, so that’s an added bonus. It would’ve been hard if they decided to limit my access to you. That wouldn’t do. So I had to make sure they were on my side.”

“Was that what everything was? Making sure they were on your side? Isn’t that a little manipulative?” I hedge nervously.

“No. Just taking care of one extra detail. I want you to be happy, Petra. And that means knowing your parents are happy with you—and with your decisions, too.”

I’m even more confused now. One moment, he’s declaring I’m his, whether I like it or not. The next, he’s saying he wants me to be happy. It’s very paradoxical, and I cannot make sense of this constant shift in his personality.

Just who is he?

Is he the intense, no-nonsense guy who only knows how to command? Or is he this sweet angel who listens to everything I have to say?

I no longer know.

He continues driving until we reach the cemetery. There are already several cars parked, and in the distance, I see a line of people heading to the burial site. He parks and we get out, walking toward the funeral location.

As we’ve come to expect, the weather reflects the emotional charge of the situation—cloudy, windy, and on the verge of rain. A perfect mirror for the grief-ridden expressions of those mourning François.

Everyone from school is there. Some parents. And François’s relatives. His mother is holding a black handkerchief to her face, sobbing uncontrollably, while his father tries to console her.

We take our spot in the back of the crowd.

The coffin is still elevated, with the priest standing next to it, reciting a few prayers.

Just as the priest mentions the words innocent souls, François’s mother wails aloud.