Page 274 of Sinister

And yet, there is another reason why I came here. Because if there were newspaper clips about those other events, then there has to be one about what happened that night in the town square at the obelisk.

I start looking around. I go straight for the stack of papers from before, but this time I know they’re not there anymore.

“What?” I murmur to myself.

But now I know—it was him.

He must have been the one to put them there in the first place, and now he’s hidden them somewhere for some unknown reason.

So, I start searching.

Like a madwoman, I tear all the books from the shelves. Everything in my path, I fling to the floor when I see it doesn’t serve any purpose.

There are so many items in here. A treasure trove of antiques he must have collected throughout time.

And then another question: If he is immortal now, what about then? Was he not immortal back then, too? How long has he been alive? How many other women has he preyed on?

Even though, logically, I know that someone as devoted as Sin would probably not look at another woman, my feelings—my emotions—are running so hot that I cannot think rationally.

I can only look for the things he’s hidden from me.

The manipulation, everything he’s done from the past until now.

Because no matter how much I love him, I have to admit to myself that I don’t know him. I don’t know a thing about him.

I didn’t know him in the past, either. He might have given me pieces of information, he might have said a thing or two about who he is and where he came from, but even then, the most important things he always hid from me.

I once asked him what deal he made with that entity who saved him when he was fourteen, and he never gave me a straight answer.

Perhaps because this is the answer. The fact that he is immortal. The fact that he’s engineered the death of tens of people—maybe even hundreds I don’t know about.

But that’s not all.

He claims to love me, but all he’s done so far is take advantage of me, of my insecurities, my situation, time and time again.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath. All around me, books are flung across the room. Some of them are torn from my reckless need for answers.

Now, looking down at the ripped pages, I feel a hole in my stomach.

I caused this. And even I don’t recognize myself anymore.

I sink to the floor on my knees. I place my palms on the ground and take big gulps of air in an attempt to calm my wild heartbeat.

Think, Petra. Think. It’s not like you to get worked up so easily.

I let out a dry laugh.

How could anyone not get worked up over this? Over everything?

I was just a regular high school student a few months ago. Just a normal human.

And now?

Now the father of my baby is some type of immortal entity who manically murders people. And I have to contend with the fact that I don’t know what to trust anymore—about him, about this world, about the evil I’ve witnessed, about the fact that there might be some type of evil festering inside of me.

I just . . . I don’t know anymore.

For minutes, I try to calm myself. And that’s when, from the corner of my eye, I see it. The same yellowed paper as the newspaper clips from before. It’s not a fixed stack, just a few pages tucked inside the middle of a book.