Page 55 of Sinister

“Thanks, Petra. You, too.”

The conversation felt nice. Refreshing. But there’s no time to dwell on that now.

The shadows are lengthening, and the air is growing cooler. And I must make my way to the gardener’s shed. Sin is waiting, and I need to face what’s coming.

Dusk is the loveliest time at St. Anselm Hall. The elm groves wear haloes of remnant daylight while around them, evening spreads its inky black lace. I reach the gardener’s shed just as the last hints of sunshine disappear under this twilight veil.

The large oak looming over the shed casts shadows over the sprawling structure, adding to the overall eeriness that I find so endearing and romantic.

Usually.

Right now, I am much too bundled with nerves to appreciate the stunning interplay of light and dark. I’m further flustered when I see Sin leaning against the entrance, his taut yet muscular figure outlined against the cobwebbed beams supporting his weight.

Something feels different about him today—there’s a tension in the set of his shoulders, a tightness in his jaw.

He watches me approach, and instantly I am struck by the difference between his and Harry’s body language. “Petra,” he says offhandedly, pushing himself off the doorframe. “Thanks for coming.”

I nod sedately, trying to read his expression. “Of course. We-we need to get started on the project.”

Sin puts on a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Sure, we can do that. Or—and hear me out before you say ‘no’—how about we ditch the shed tonight? Let’s go out.”

“Out? Where?” I ask without thinking.

“Dinner, silly!” he replies with a dazzling smile, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Why don’t we discuss the project over some good food? No distractions, no interruptions.”

I hesitate, feeling that familiar wariness creep in. “Sin, we have a lot of work. I’m not sure if⁠—”

“Come on, Petra,” he cuts in smoothly, stepping closer in the same fluid movement. His voice softens. Now it’s beguiling, coaxing, caramel-sweet as he says, “We’ll have plenty of time to go over everything. Besides, you could use a break.”

He is right, you know, my inner voice notes. We need a break. And you need to chill.

“What the hell, let’s go,” I reply with a shrug.

How bad can it be?

16

PETRA

Crickets and cicadas sing in the tall grass as we walk to his car, a black Porsche Panamera.

He opens the passenger door for me, a gentlemanly gesture completely in line with his persona of the knight in football uniform, and I slide into the plush leather seat.

As we drive away from the school grounds, I keep glancing at Sin, searching for any signs of tension on his face. But he looks utterly relaxed, even whistling a few bars as he lightly steers the car down the paved roads lined with looming oaks and pines.

Finally, Sin clears his throat.

“So, did you have any plans for dinner?”

I shrug, looking out the window. “Not really. What do you have in mind?”

“You’ll see,” he responds with a small, mysterious smile.

Soon, we pull up to a smartly designed restaurant just a few blocks from St. Anselm Hall.

It’s a popular spot called L’Avion and was supposedly built by a retired World War II pilot who had dropped tons of bombs on the Nazis, at least according to local legends.

The well-stocked bar and spacious seating, not to mention the bartender’s lazy disregard for the fact that many of the patrons are below the drinking age, make sure that the place is always bustling.