Page 74 of Sinister

Good gracious, I’m really starting to lose it if this is what my subconscious is conjuring up.

Yet no matter how decided I am to change my project partner, my resolve falters when I arrive at school. The corridors of St. Anselm Hall buzz with an inscrutable energy, a certain urgency underscored by whispered conversations, furtive glances, and tense faces.

Even in the midst of my inner anguish, I can feel the pervasive sense of doom that’s settled over the SAH junta as soon as I step through the front doors.

“Did you hear?” Claire announces as she skids to a halt before me.

“Oh my God, Petra, it’s just horrible!”

These are the most words I have ever heard Claire utter, as she usually keeps to herself.

So I ask, “Hear what?” almost instinctively. Something must be very amiss if Claire is this unsettled.

“That kid who dropped out of Art History?” Claire begins in a breathless voice.

“Yes? I got his seat when he dropped out,” I respond fearfully.

Are they going to tell me that there was some kind of mistake? That I don’t have the seat after all?

Of course, the real news is much worse.

“They-they found him dead on the school property,” Claire stammers. “They’re saying it might be⁠—”

“Wait, what? Claire, did you just say someone’s dead?”

I grab her shoulders to steady her because her eyes are wide and unfocused. Her hair’s all over the place, and frankly, she looks like she’s coming apart at the seams.

“Edwin Greenfield!” she cries out. “That red-haired guy who got an early-decision to Harvard, remember? He was your partner in that course last year, right?”

The blood drains from my face as the name finally registers.

Edwin.

We’d worked together on an Econ 101 project, and he’d helped me understand the toughest parts of microeconomic analysis. More importantly, Edwin was a nice person, someone who had helped me without judgment or mockery.

“Wha-what happened?” I finally manage to ask in a trembling voice.

“They found him in the woods, Petra. Right past the track-and-field arena. One of the gardeners found him . . . It’s all anyone’s talking about.”

My vision blurs as the thought of someone’s dead body, that, too, of someone I used to know quite well, floods my mind and overwhelms me completely.

“I can’t believe it,” I whisper in a weak voice, automatically leaning against the cool metal of my locker.

“Me neither!” Claire cries out before a guy, one of the jocks from Ms. Matthews’s class, stops beside her.

“Did you guys hear?” he asks, his expression stricken.

“About Edwin? Yes!” Claire exclaims, as if relieved to find someone else who might offer more words than I am coming up with.

“I heard the police are questioning people,” the guy continues, looking at me.

Okay . . . why would he look at me while saying that?

My paranoia is already working overtime, so the tiniest look or gesture can set me off.

“And the teachers are trying to keep a lid on the whole thing,” Claire adds, running her fingers through the mass of curls uncoiling atop her head.

“Huh, as if that will work,” the guy scoffs back.