Page 286 of Sinister

The insults continue, and Daphne seems to derive great enjoyment from convincing everyone that I must have had some secret affair with François.

Did she doctor the pictures and the video? Because I’m pretty sure that has to be a criminal offense. Not only is it a deepfake of me, but it should also qualify as revenge porn.

I scroll down to the last messages. After a full afternoon of chats calling me all names on the planet and making fun of my pregnancy, the conversation died down and shifted to questions about school.

My hands are balled into fists, still in disbelief at what I saw.

Fuck you, Daphne!

She knows I’m in that chat. She did this intentionally so I could see it. But what did she think she would gain from it?

My embarrassment.

Even if I deny that’s me, I doubt I will convince too many people.

Itching to respond, I click on the video and hit reply.

“Ha-ha-ha, nice try with the deepfake. I’ve never touched that slimy François. My lawyer will be in touch.”

The text is immediately seen by person after person. Yet no one comes to my defense. Instead, the replies are calling me out for saying François is slimy.

“How can you speak ill of the dead?” one message reads.

The conversation I had with Sin about François at the funeral comes to mind. What had he said? That he was known to take pictures and videos of girls without consent and spread them around.

Daphne must have gotten that video from his stash and superimposed my face on it.

Bitch.

“Agh!” I cry out loud, frustrated, annoyed, and most of all, angry.

Fucking bitch. Next time I see her, I’m going to mop the floor with her.

Or perhaps I should ask Sin to get rid of her for me. Which, at the moment, is rather tempting.

More messages call me out, and I’m already too annoyed to read on. I close my computer and plop myself on the bed, kicking at my pillow and screaming at the top of my lungs.

“Fuck you, Daphne!”

Alas, even my vocal exercises don’t seem to help too much.

My heart is erratic, and adrenaline pumps through my veins. If I weren’t so pregnant, perhaps I would have already gone in search of Daphne to punch her in the face.

As I lie in bed, I continue to make up scenarios in which I confront Daphne and give her a sound beating. It’s only when I’m out of ideas and a little bit calmer that I glance at the luggage I’d returned with and remember the odd journal I’d found.

Grabbing it from a hidden sleeve, I prop my pillows up and start reading.

I ruffle through the first pages and read the name.

Agatha Marchand. 1760.

The script, though cursive, is neat and clear, so much so that I have no trouble reading it.

I flip to the next page.

The journal starts when she is sixteen.

Agatha talks about growing up with her neighbor’s son, Elroy, who was the same age as her. They had known each other since they were babies, and they were always inseparable. He was a playful and daring boy, and though she was always the more cautious one, she somehow ended up roped in his grandiose yet crazy plans—like sneaking out at night to explore a supposedly haunted mansion nearby, climbing up trees to make a tree house, and even swimming naked in the river.