Page 99 of Sinister

“Petra, there you are. I got us some⁠—”

“You fucking liar,” I cut him off in a trembling but sharp voice.

Sin’s smile vanishes. “What? Petra, what are you talking about?”

“Yo-you asshole! You told me you had been ‘thinking about me all summer,’ but you had no issue hooking up with other people. What, you thought I’d never find out? That I’m some dumb, naïve⁠—”

“That’s not true at all, Petra!” Sin cuts in vehemently at this point. “Who the fuck told you that?”

“Does it matter who told me?” I snap, trying my best not to cry. I will not give him that satisfaction. “I should have known better. Coming here with you . . . it was a mistake. A terrible fucking mistake.”

“Petra, please listen to me,” he pleads in an urgent tone. “Whatever you heard, it’s not true. I haven’t been with anyone since . . . since that night we⁠—”

“Liar!” I shout at him and turn around, pushing my way through the crowded dance floor. Over the rising strains of Dua Lipa’s “Dance the Night,” I can still hear Sin calling after me.

“Petra! Wait, please!” His voice is desperate and loud enough to cut through even the din of the party.

But I keep moving, even when my vision blurs with tears and I am shoved and jostled by the dancers around me. Just as I reach the middle of the dance floor, the music stops, and the lights dim even further.

The sound of a projector whirring draws everyone’s attention as a video starts playing on the large screen mounted over the stage.

The sudden change in lighting makes the video too bright for my eyes, and I raise an arm to shield them.

But even before I can see the visuals, the audio makes me gasp.

“Hi there. How are you doing today?” I hear a woman say, and it’s the same voice; I know it.

Oh God, what is this?

When my eyes finally adjust to the light, I realize that playing on the screen, before all of St. Anselm Hall, before Sin, is a video of me at the pharmacy.

Buying a pregnancy test.

No, no, no, this is not real. But that’s clearly me on the screen, looking pale and frightened, handing over boxes of pregnancy tests to the cashier.

Murmurs break out around me as my breathing becomes shallow and rapid. I clutch my chest as my heart gallops like a wild horse.

I’m about to be sick.

This can’t be happening.

But the hellish experience is not over.

Crude comments shoot out of the crowd.

“Slut!” someone yells.

“Who’s the dad?” another chimes in.

Each word causes physical pain as my vision blurs again.

I turn around desperately, searching for Sin, but he’s nowhere near me. Instead, I just stand there feeling utterly alone and exposed, surrounded by people who are mercilessly mocking me when I’m at my most vulnerable.

Tears are now streaming down my face, and I struggle to breathe.

“Please, stop,” I whisper, but my voice is barely audible over the ruckus. “Just stop . . .”

But the crowd is baying for my blood at this point. Their laughter only grows louder, more pointed, more malicious.