Page 61 of Sinister

“The leader won’t be enough,” the other man replies with a sharp tsk. “Not just him—his main disciples, too. If he’s gone, they’ll just carry on his legacy. We must wipe out the core of the movement. Otherwise, everyone in this town will be doomed.”

I can’t listen to another word. I retreat upstairs on shaking legs, my breath coming fast. Did they really just plot to kill someone?

Someone who merely disagrees with them?

Yes. They did.

And knowing my father, how deep his fanaticism runs, I can see it happening. I can see him doing it, truly believing he’s committing a righteous act. They’ll call it a necessary evil. They won’t even realize they’ve become worse than the people they claim to condemn.

But it isn’t just the murder they’re planning—it’s who they’re planning to kill.

They didn’t say his name. But it has to be him. He must be one of those “disciples” they mentioned. Why else would people in the square speak of him with such venom? Why else would they call him “cursed,” a “demon”?

He’s part of that school of thought. Of course he is. It makes sense now.

Oh, Lord. This is bad. This is really, truly bad.

If that ritual, or whatever they’re planning, is happening two days from now, then they’re going to act tomorrow.

Panic grips me. No matter how much I’ve tried to push Sin out of my mind, no matter how I’ve tried to forget our strange encounters, the letters, the disturbing gift he left me (God, a piece of flesh), that doesn’t mean I want to see him dead, does it?

No. I don’t want to see him hurt. Not in any way.

I think of the moment he was hit in the face, blood running down his cheek, that look of shock and pain when he saw me listening to the cruel things being said about him.

In that moment, he looked so vulnerable, and something about that struck a chord in me. Maybe I’m more sentimental than I want to admit. But one thing is certain: I cannot live with myself knowing a crime is about to be committed and doing nothing.

But how?

I’m watched, day and night.

Since that final, grotesque letter, Sin hasn’t reached out. It’s been days. I have no way to contact him.

The clock is ticking. The night creeps forward. Soon, the new day will dawn, and my father and that stranger will set their plan in motion.

I have to act. Fast.

I begin to pace, racking my brain for a way to reach Sin—somehow. There’s only one answer I keep circling back to:

I must go to him.

But where? I don’t know where he lives . . . but I know where he spends his time. The university. I could go there. I must go there.

But how do I leave without anyone seeing me? How do I get across town without being caught?

The questions swirl, but one thing is louder than all of them—my conviction. I must do something before it’s too late.

I shed my nightgown, throw on a day dress, and tie a scarf around my head. Instinctively, I reach for my veil—but no. If anyone sees me wearing it, they’ll know I’m from the church. Word will spread fast.

I take off the veil and leave only the scarf. I slip on my shoes and move toward the window.

Sin once left a letter for me there. He climbed up the wall. Could I climb down?

I peer over the ledge. There are a few protruding stones—places to grip, places to step. But I’m no climber. I’ve never done anything so physically demanding in my life. What if I fall? What if they hear me?

Still, I have no choice.

Gripping the window frame, I hoist myself onto the sill. My feet dangle in the cold air as I turn, slowly, and search with my toes for the next ledge.