Page 78 of Sinister

Got any advice? What was your first time like?

Again, I’m yanked into another unsettling memory: Blurry images and sensations from that night with Sin flood my mind, and I feel a knot tighten in my stomach. I type slowly, choosing my words carefully.

Tbh, I wish my first time had been better. Just . . . make sure you know what you want. I wish I did.

And still do.

This time, several minutes pass by before she writes back:

Thanks for that, Petra. Was it not good tho? Your first time?

Do I even remember enough of it to answer the question? And what about the result of that encounter, that “first time” that left such an indelible mark on my body?

All these unanswerable questions further swell the growing mass of despair in my heart, and I hold back a fresh stream of tears when I type:

Nothing like that. Just be careful, okay. Promise me you’ll be safe.

I promise, Petra. Pinky promise.

She sends a string of heart and hug emojis. I put the phone away and return to my panicking senses.

I just need to breathe. I just need to center myself. I just need to SCREAM AND SCREAM TILL I GO DEAF OR MUTE OR BOTH. I just need to breathe. Just breathe.

And so, I keep standing under the willow tree, chanting to myself in a fruitless bid to calm down. Fruitless because in a few minutes, the PA system crackles, and a dull voice resounds in the air.

“Petra Valentine, please report to the principal’s office.”

My heart drops to my stomach, and my feet freeze in the grass.

What now?

How could a single day be full of so many unexpected incidents? Before I can rage against the universe, the same message blares over the speakers again, so I start putting on my shoes.

By the time I reach the principal’s office, I have already been asked to do so thrice. The secretary, Mr. Grenville, gestures for me to sit on a wooden bench outside the door. Inside, muffled voices are locked in a serious conversation.

I sit and fiddle my sweaty thumbs until the door swings open and Principal Rhodes steps out with a carefully blank face and says, “Petra, please come in. The detectives need to ask you a few questions.”

Detectives? Questions? I can barely begin to process these words when I find myself inside Principal Rhodes’s office, an old-fashioned affair in green leather and dark mahogany.

Don’t panic, Petra, you haven’t committed a crime. Unless getting knocked up as a teen is a crime.

The irony of that sentiment is not lost on me, so I almost crack a smile, but the sight of the two detectives in the room ensures it doesn’t blossom fully on my face. Not to mention my parents and what they will think once they hear about this.

“Hi, Petra, I’m Detective Fiona Bedford, but feel free to call me Fiona,” says the wavy-haired woman in a dark blue suit.

Medium in height but well-built with stately proportions, Fiona smells good too—something with vanilla and coffee—and for some reason, it helps me relax.

“And I’m Detective Phil Martinez,” says the tall, lean man next to her. He’s dressed in a grey suit that’s a little too loose around the shoulders. But his face has a boyish charm, and his smile is friendly as he gestures me toward a chair next to Mr. Rhodes’s desk.

“H-hi,” I begin hesitantly before clearing my throat and using a firmer voice.

I am no criminal, and I have rights!

“Hi, Fiona and Phil. What is this about?” I ask, emulating my mother’s tone while talking to the landscapers who regularly mess up her plans for the garden.

Perhaps my tone surprises them because they exchange a look before turning to me. “We won’t beat around the bush, Petra,” Fiona begins softly. “I trust you already know about Edwin Greenfield?”

This is about Edwin?