Page 275 of Sinister

I crawl toward it on my knees, pick up the book, open it, and remove the slips of newspaper with trembling hands.

The first one is another report on Snowden and Leah’s deaths. It details more about the fire at his house and includes the testimony of his butler, who was the one to imply that Snowden had gone mad at finding out his daughter was pregnant out of wedlock and had killed her before killing himself.

No doubt—the narrative that Sin paid him to espouse.

I look at the next file, and horror clamps down on me. It’s a photograph of the obelisk in the aftermath of the fire.

There’s no body, but I can see the burnt ashes and the pieces of rope that had been around my limbs.

I feel another panic attack incoming—my throat closing up, my vision spinning—yet I push myself to keep going. I read the text:

Public Execution.

The daughter of a prominent religious leader was killed in the town square by her father and a zealous mob. She was reputed to be in cahoots with the pagan society from St. Anselm Hall. Some even claimed she might have been the devil’s whore.

The article details the symbol on my chest and how its presence confirmed, in the eyes of both my father and the crowd, that I must be marked by the devil.

Nowhere does the article condemn the actions of the townspeople. Nowhere does it express remorse for what happened.

For the fact that an innocent woman was burned alive.

No—it just says these “drastic actions” reflect the townspeople’s fear. Their conviction that something evil lingers in Ratcliffe.

“Petra . . .” Sin’s voice echoes.

I don’t answer.

Instead, I grab my phone and text the only person who’s still on my side.

I need help.

I type to Amelia, waiting with bated breath, hoping she has her phone on her. That she’ll answer. That she’ll give me something—guidance, support, anything.

Please, Ames. Respond. I need you.

I quickly type again. But then my whole body freezes.

My eyes widen just as the phone slips from my hand.

What was that?

Two low sounds. In quick succession.

Text messages—from behind the door.

No. No, no. Anything but this.

Ames . . .

I send again. Another sound.

Where are you?

Another sound.

Finally, I type:

Sin?