Page 285 of Sinister

I’m about to tell him we agreed on some distance when another icon catches my sight. It’s the school chat, and there are hundreds of unread messages.

I don’t know what makes me open it—chalk it up to curiosity. Although I’ve never been active in the chat, it usually is the place for the latest gossip and other announcements.

With the death of François, it’s no doubt teeming with terrified teenagers trying to make sense of a potential serial killer in our midst.

As I open the chat, it scrolls up to the last read message. I look curiously through the messages, noting the increased anxiety among my peers.

But then I reach the messages from a couple of days ago, after François’s funeral.

“Petra has some gall to go against Daphne at the funeral.”

“She has some gall to show her face at all. I can’t believe Sin continues to hang out with her when she’s so pregnant.”

“Who do you think the baby daddy is?”

“I doubt she even knows it.”

That message was sent by Daphne.

I ball my hands into fists as I scan through the many messages debating on who the father of my baby is.

“My money’s on Harry,” someone says.

“If that’s true, she’s going to end up a single mom. *Laughing emoji*.”

“She’s gonna end up a single mom regardless. Who wants to take care of a baby in high school?”

“I have some info.” Daphne, again.

“What?”

“Tell us.”

“What is it, Daph?”

“Rumor has it she’s been sleeping with Edwin, Harry, and François.”

What? What rumor? And François of all people? Ew!

If you’re going to lie about something, Daphne, at least make it believable.

“François?” It seems my classmates are also reluctant to believe that.

Yet the next message is a picture. A nude picture of me—or, at least, it has my face on a naked body. My mouth drops open in shock as I stare at how realistic it is. It must have been made with some AI software, one of those deepfakes I’ve heard about.

If I didn’t know I’ve never taken any nude photos before, even I would have believed that is me.

A barrage of shocked messages from the other classmates, followed by a few more pictures in different positions. But the pièce de résistance is a video. Of fake me and . . . François?

What the fuck?

Rage bubbles inside of me as I stare at my likeness being used in such a lurid fashion.

“Waaa, slut!”

“She’s such a whore. No wonder she has no idea who the baby daddy is.”

“Skank.”