Page 47 of Sinister

I don’t wait to see his reaction. I don’t want to.

His name might be Sin, but he will not make me sin.

Not with him. Not without him.

I end up finding my way back to Mrs. Jenkins and the girls. They accept my excuse that I got lost in the crowd—and as it turns out, I wasn’t the only one. Some of the other girls return even after me. Thankfully, no one suspects a thing.

We all make our way home, and Mrs. Jenkins decides it’s best not to mention anything about the commotion in the square to our parents. If you ask me, that’s the best decision she could have made. I don’t need to be barred from future outings over one chaotic afternoon.

At home, I go through the motions. We eat dinner together, and afterward, everyone retires to their rooms. Once I’m alone, I let out a relieved breath.

And then my mind begins to turn.

From the charming man who sent me letters and books under the veil of night, he became a monster in front of my eyes. I know his name now, but somehow, I feel further from understanding who he is than ever before.

I begin my nightly routine, performing my ablutions and preparing for bed. Out of instinct, I move to the window.

I don’t even know what I expect to find.

But there it is. A letter. No book this time, just a single envelope.

For a brief, reckless moment, I consider throwing it out the window. But someone might find it. That would be worse.

I pick it up, intending to burn it. I won’t read it, I tell myself. There’s nothing left to say.

He’s shown his true colors. He doesn’t care about what I think, not really. He’s just another man seeking control, another man pretending to care.

I walk to the fireplace, letter in hand, ready to toss it into the flames. But as I lift it, something catches my eye.

The corner is damp—sticky. Red.

“What . . .” I whisper.

Curiosity overtakes dread as I carefully peel the envelope open.

There is no letter inside.

Just a small, raw piece of flesh. Wet, bleeding. It slips from the envelope and hits the floor with a sickening thud.

I recoil, hand over my mouth. I try not to scream.

What is this? Why would he send something like this?

Gingerly, I grab the fire poker and nudge it. As I roll it over, I see ink. A message, scrawled in familiar handwriting:

Forgive me.

I gag.

Is it his flesh? Someone else’s? The thought makes my stomach churn.

He’s mad. That’s the only answer. Madder than I’d dared to believe. Sin, he called himself, and now the name makes cruel sense. He doesn’t just bear the name. He is the embodiment of it.

I grab the piece of flesh and drop it back into the envelope, ready to destroy it. But just as I hold it over the fire, something stops me.

My hand trembles.

Why can’t I let go?