Текст книги "Devious Minds"
Автор книги: K. F. Germaine
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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 18 страниц)
Chapter Thirty-Four
Panic set in when I woke to no Sydney.
I lay in bed for a minute, hands clenched into fists, wondering what happened. Yesterday had been so perfect. Where did it go wrong? Probably because I couldn’t keep my big mouth shut and nearly admitted my undying love. Now she was scared as hell.
When I entered the dining room, Fernando and Chance were sitting at the table, plates set out in front of them, sipping coffee and chatting it up like morning talk show hosts.
Chance gave me a knowing smile and jerked his head toward the swinging kitchen doors. “She didn’t bail,” he said with a smirk. “She’s in the kitchen.”
“I know.” I lied and swung past the table and through the doors.
Sydney was at the stove, humming to a beat playing in her head. Her messy hair was up in a big bun, and she was wearing my T-shirt and a pair of my boxers.
I leaned against the counter and watched her. She hadn’t noticed me yet. Too involved in her own world as she danced around and tossed chopped-up rocket dog in the egg scramble she was cooking. She looked beautiful, and I kept wondering how we went from death threats to wrapped in one another’s arms last night.
But her words haunted me. I’d heard her loud and clear—no more lies. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t dissolve the lump forming in my throat. A groveling-at-her-feet confession was required if we had any hope for a future. And I most definitely wanted a future with Sydney.
When she finally turned, I expected her to be startled and scream. Instead, she kept her beat, hopped over to me, and pulled my hands to her hips.
“Dance with me,” she begged, and I shook my head.
“Too early, baby.”
She gave me a pathetic scowl and rubbed her hips against my leg. “Do you wish I were taller, Gray? I’d feel less like a Chihuahua against a Great Dane that way.” She laughed and pointed to her hips that only reached mid-thigh on me.
Grabbing her waist, I pulled her up onto the counter next to me. “I like that you’re four feet tall and your arms are crazy long. You’re like a little monkey.” I nuzzled into her chest, and she whapped me upside the head.
When I pulled back laughing, she put her hands on her hips. “I’m five feet four. That’s a respectable height, and my arms are proportionate.” She held out her arms, examining their length. “See?”
I nodded and gave her a chaste kiss on the forehead. “I think you’re perfect, Sinister. Being of short stature is a blessing, not a curse. Think of all the cupboards you can hide inside. If this were a horror movie, I’d be the first one dead.”
She stared past me, deep in thought. “No, Fernando would be first. Then you. But Chance and I would hide in a closet while the killer roamed the house looking for us. And being as we’re the last two humans on earth, we’d quickly procreate so the human species could live on through me.”
I let out a disapproving growl.
“Then the killer would find Chance, and because I’m so little, I would sneak out through the crawlspace hatch in the closet. Unfortunately, Chance couldn’t fit. The last thing I’d see would be Chance’s head rolling across the dirt foundation floor, and the last thing I’d hear would be the killer’s aggravated screams after realizing he was bested by a LITTLE MONKEY,” she yelled into my face, ending with a laugh.
I was about to attack her when she let out a yelp and pushed me aside. “Crap, forgot about the food.” She ran over to the stove and quickly stirred something nearly burnt.
“Rocket dogs and eggs?” She turned, showing me the pan. “Gotta make sure Fernando eats or he can’t protect you on the field Saturday.”
Standing behind her, I hugged her waist. “Always looking out for me.” I kissed the top of her head. “Thank you.” I started to move my hands up her shirt when I heard the guys yell from the dining room.
“Done yet?” they screamed as she turned off the stove.
“Man, they are grummmmpy,” Sydney drawled, handing me the pan.
After she poured a coffee for herself, we headed to the dining room where the boys were salivating over their plates. Sydney sat across from me at the table. We were making eyes at one another, passing flirtatious smiles back and forth. Sliding my leg across, I ran it up hers, but I didn’t remember it being hairy.
“Getting fresh with me, Peters?” Chance shook his head and rubbed my leg back. “Not sure I’m your type.”
Sydney broke out in a boisterous laugh, and soon, I was right there with her.
Picking at her eggs, she glanced up at me. “I have Geology at ten, but I’ll be done at one. Do you have an afternoon class?”
Wait, did just I detect an eager Sinister checking my schedule? Yes, I did.
“Yes,” I said, finally locating her leg under the table. “But you’re coming to class with me.”
I lightly rubbed her calf, and she frowned.
“The last thing I want is to hang out on campus on my afternoon off.”
“You’ll like this class,” I said, giving her a subtle wink. “Unless you have something better to do? Burn down Kappa Delta, maybe? Spray-paint 666 on the side of the Religious Studies building? Typical bad girl stuff.”
She smiled, a rosy blush building on her cheeks, then glanced at Chance and Fernando. “Now that you’ve blown my plans out of the water, I suppose I could endure an hour of remedial English.”
I smiled and tipped my fork at her. “You ain’t learnt nuttin’ yet, Sinister.”
At half past one, Sydney burst through her dormitory doors, wearing a bright smile, and bolted toward my car. She was in skinny jeans and a grey hooded sweatshirt. Her long hair was pulled back in a low ponytail, and she was wearing that hat with a chopped-up animal on the front. Even when she looked like a teenage boy, she was the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen (scratch that first part).
When she noticed the crowd of football groupies who’d stopped by my car, she pulled her hood over her hat like she was about to be attacked by paparazzi. While any other girl would have crawled over just to prolong the jealous gaping, Sydney ran like she’d just robbed a bank and I was the getaway driver. She even hit the car panel twice before hopping in the seat.
“Ready?” I asked, and her eyes screamed at me to get moving. “I’m still warming up the car,” I teased, watching the group of loitering girls grow. “Sometimes she needs a few minutes of just idling to get the engine ready. Also, I need some good music, and I’m still working through the stati—”
“Gray,” she snapped, delivering a stern glare, and I chuckled under my breath. “Move it.”
It wasn’t long before we left campus and headed through the city toward MacArthur Middle School. The school was poorly funded, and the arts programs had been recently cut, so when I volunteered to instruct, they practically issued me a parking spot. It also doubled as an externship credit, so for me, it was win-win.
“What class is this?” she asked, finally pulling down her hood. Apparently, we were far enough from school she could be seen with me.
“It’s a surprise, Sinister.”
When I pulled through a low-income neighborhood, she stared out the window at the dilapidated homes and rundown apartment buildings.
“Are you taking me to see your drug dealer?” she joked, peering down at the poorly maintained streets. “I knew you were on steroids.”
When I noticed two kids skateboarding in the vacant lot next to the school, I stopped and rolled down my window. “Get to class!” I yelled, and Sydney’s eyes practically fell out of their sockets.
“What the hell, Grandpa Peters?” She laughed and looked back at the kids through the rearview. “Trying to scare them straight? Won’t work when you’re driving a car worth more than their homes, you rich prick.”
Laughing, I turned into a parking lot across from the school. Sydney threw me a suspicious look but stepped out of the car and waited as I pulled out my canvas portfolio bag and tackle box from the trunk.
“Are we fishing?” she teased, and I grabbed her hand, leading her up the steps.
Soon after, I led her down the chipped linoleum-floor school hallway and to the rec room. She froze at the doorway when she saw the art easels set up in a semicircle with a low wooden stage in the middle. “This… looks like a trap.” She turned to flee, but my sixth graders piled through the door, blocking her escape.
Chapter Thirty-Five
W hat is he trying to do to me?
He teaches an art class? Who is this person?
When a flood of unwashed cherubic faces pushed through the door, my heart stopped. They all looked at Gray with bright smiles and, one by one, held up their large art pads for his approval.
“Hi, Mr. Peters,” squeaked a chubby girl wearing an orange headband and a Justin Beiber shirt.
“Afternoon, Rhia,” he said, putting on a sudden teacherish voice, and I held back from shaking my head in utter astonishment. “That’s Miss Porter’s favorite artist.” He pointed at her T-shirt, and the girl’s eyes crusted over with Beiber Fever.
“What’s your favorite song?” she asked, pulling my arm to the side. I racked my brain as Gray laughed from the doorway.
“Oh, you know, the one about the girl and the heart and the love.” She nodded like I hadn’t just bullshitted my way out of answering. For added effect, I made a heart shape with my hands and pumped it against my chest. Yes, I’d seen the music video. Don’t judge!
“Mine too,” she said on a giggle as she made her way toward an easel. “We’ll talk after class,” she reassured me, and I gave her a slow nod.
Gray remained in the doorway, high-fiving every sweaty, zitty kid that waltzed inside the room. The two skateboarders came rushing in, and Gray whapped them playfully upside the head, and they both chuckled, running over to a set of easels.
Pretty soon, the room was packed, and little gerbil-like squeals from girls and disgusting belches from boys assaulted my ears. Gray took my arm and led me to the stage, motioning for me to sit.
“Afternoon, kids, this is Sydney and—”
“She a new kid?” one of the skater kids asked in a cracked, high-pitched voice. “She must have transferred from Darmer? You a transfer from Darmer?”
Shaking my head, I glanced down at my sweatshirt, jeans, and Converse. I looked like I could’ve fit right in with these unruly punks.
“No, Jude, Sydney will be modeling for you today,” Gray said, holding back a laugh.
Two boys off to the side exchanged a look of excitement, and Gray quickly added, “In her clothes, Patrick and Louis.” He held two fingers to his eyes and turned them back on the boys, as if to say, I’m watching you, and they chuckled from their seats.
“Today is about Patrick’s favorite subject,” Gray began, sending Patrick a smile. “Feelings.”
The kids laughed, and Patrick went red in the face.
“You’ve all studied the Mona Lisa and you’ve seen that smirk on her face, like she’d just let a fart loose.” The kids broke out in howling laughter, and Gray shot me a smile. “But what was more important than her pale face and teasing eyes, something that has been debated throughout history, was what she was thinking. What was lurking behind that smile? Was she annoyed? Was she thinking, I can’t wait until class is over so I can snort Pepsi through my nose to impress girls?”
All the kids laughed and pointed fingers at Patrick and Louis. I couldn’t help but laugh too.
“What was Mona Lisa feeling for hours on end, sitting in that stuffy studio while Leonardo DiCaprio painted her?”
“Leonardo da Vinci,” the class groaned in unison, and Gray opened his arms to the ceiling like a proud symphony conductor.
“So you were listening to last week’s lecture,” Gray teased just as a hand shot up from behind an easel. “Yes, Parker?”
A small boy with thick-rimmed glassed craned his neck to look at me. “How are we supposed to know what she’s feeling? I mean, she looks kind of grumpy, like my mom before her coffee in the morning.” He rubbed his forehead with his greasy little hand. “But she looks older than my mom. My mom’s thirty-eight.”
Parker better watch his back when the bell rings.
“She’s going to tell you,” Gray answered, trying not to laugh. “Sydney’s going to tell you a story, and I want you to fill the page with the feeling it conjures. Use shapes, angles, and any color you want, but this exercise is about capturing emotion on paper.” He turned toward me and nodded. “Go ahead, Sydney.”
I shook my head, but he ignored me and moved to the back of the room, behind his students. I could feel the stares of all the kids on my face, and I was burning up inside.
God, what is he doing?
The thought crossed my mind to grab my phone and call a cab, but when I heard the clearing of small throats and read the excited glances, I broke down.
Tell them a story? Like a bedtime story? A scary sitting in front of the campfire story? Looking across their small feet, a pair of trashed tennis shoes caught my eye. The heels were worn out from overuse, the rubber cracking at the sides. Instantly, summer popped into my mind. I’d never said the events out loud, but if they wanted emotion, I was going to give it to them in spades.
“Do you guys like summer?”
A line of bobble-heads whipped up and down as one. Duh, who doesn’t like summer?
“Well, summer was always my favorite time of the year. School was boring, and if I had to hear another lecture on conjugating verbs, I was going to ride my bike off the nearest cliff.”
A couple students laughed, and I stole a quick glance at Gray to make sure I could say things like that. He gave me a thumbs-up and started to pace back and forth as the kids grabbed oil pastels and set to work.
“I would ride my bike every day and do wheelies off the park benches. I’d go through at least two pairs of Converse a summer because I used them as makeshift breaks until the heels were rubbed raw.” I pulled my leg out to show them my shoes.
“But my favorite part of summer was visiting my dad. My parents split up when I was seven, and I’d spend summers at my dad’s. He lived in a small logging town on the coast, and he drove a logging truck to make ends meet.”
I took off my dad’s burgundy trucker hat so they could see it, and a few kids snatched a burgundy pastel from their boxes.
“But Dad’s true passion was music. Mom always thought music was a waste of time, so when Dad gave me a used Casio CT-101 piano keyboard, I thought the heavens had opened up around me.” Peeling off my sweatshirt, I held my piano tattoo out for them to see. “I was eleven years old at the time, and we’d spend hours on that thing, making up songs while my little brother Jack would breakdance behind us.”
Gray laughed and leaned his head toward one of the kids, pointing to something on her paper.
“Jack wasn’t very good,” I added. “He was always better at ballet.”
The kids giggled, and I laughed with them.
“Anyway, Dad would come home from work, sweaty and stinky from long hours in the truck, and he’d sit next to me at the table and we’d create.”
I tapped my fingers over the piano keys.
“He’d make up the verses, and I’d plunk on the keys until they matched. Then Dad would grab his guitar. And Jack would grab pots from the kitchen and bang them together.”
I felt the sting of tears line my eyes, so I looked up at the ceiling, blinking them back. “That’s when I realized you didn’t have to have a lot of money to make something magical.”
These kids knew better than me what life was without money. Mom always had a decent job, but she’d never spend a dime on instruments when designer handbags could be purchased. In fact, she’d never even spend an hour with Jack and me unless it benefitted her in some way.
“Everything is an instrument.” I paused for dramatic effect, honing the skills I learned in my high school theater class. Best French villager #18 in my school’s rendition of Beauty and the Beast.
“I’d flip the pages of paperback books just to listen to the fluttering sound. I’d fill glasses at varying levels and hit the sides with spoons. I’d force Jack to jump on different floorboards in my dad’s ancient apartment just to hear the sounds while I strummed utensils along the metal spines of notebooks. Well, one day while Dad was at work, Jack and I came up with a whole routine.”
I smiled down at my hat, thinking about our ridiculous song.
“I’d recorded a song on the Casio so it was ready for playback. As soon as I hit the button, Jack lightly clapped his hands.” I clapped my hands lightly. “Then as he’d build to a louder clap, I’d blow air over a half-filled beer bottle. I didn’t drink it,” I added, and the kids chuckled. “Then I would tap a spoon against Dad’s pizza pan.
“After exactly two minutes of clapping, Jack would start jumping on the one floorboard we discovered had a sharp-pitched creak.” I tried to copy the sound out loud, but it came across as a mating dolphin, and the kids winced.
“And then we’d do it louder and faster, until my cheeks hurt, and I knew Jack’s thigh was aching. Then, at just the right moment, we’d stop and let the piano music take over. It was beautiful and complicated, you know?”
A few of the kids shook their heads, not following my train of thought.
“It was complicated because it was hard. The process of arranging the sounds perfectly after trial and error. But it was beautiful because when it all fell together, it was unique. Jack and I made music from an old piano, a pizza pan, a beer bottle, Jack’s hands, and a creaky old floorboard. Something you’d never hear on the radio. Two little kids running around an old one-bedroom apartment, repurposing objects until they sang.”
I stopped, feeling a painful lump in my throat, and Gray moved to the front of the class. “Maybe we should take a break,” he said, his eyes never flickering from my face. “Let’s thank Sydney for such a colorful personal story, and when we get back, we’ll critique.”
A few thanks were muttered, and then that little shorty with the terrible eyesight (thirty-eight!), Parker, spoke up. “Did your Dad like it?”
I stared at his bright-eyed smiling face, but I couldn’t break his heart.
“He loved it,” I finally answered, feeling old wounds tear open.
The kids spread faster than wildfire, heading out into the hall to use the restroom or get a drink of water. Gray waited for them to leave before wrapping his arms around me in a warm, safe hug. “Awesome story, Sydney.” He dropped his hand down my back and led me toward the easels. “Let’s look at what the kids think.”
We walked from picture to picture. I laughed at a few of them, not because they were funny, but because they were cute. One had a purple keyboard and a young boy dancing in the background, who I guessed was Jack. One kid drew me doing a wheelie off a park bench, but it looked like my arm was broken in half.
“Needs some work,” Gray mumbled as he tickled my side.
I stopped in front of Parker’s picture, and Gray shook his head. “Well, at least he used a lot of color.”
“That’s the log truck,” I said, pointing to brown cylinders at the top of the page. It was held up by a grey rectangle that must have been the truck body. Underneath that were three vertical lines: pink, black, and blue. They were all connected by one dotted gray line. “And that’s me, my dad, and Jack.”
Reading my face, Gray grabbed my hand as if he knew I needed the comfort.
“And all that color, those rings behind us? See how they start off light and almost nonexistent in the center, then grow in intensity as you move toward the outer rings? That’s the music,” I choked out as hot, frustrated tears poured down my cheeks.
Immediately, Gray pulled me into his side. “Shh… Sydney,” he murmured into my hair. “I didn’t want this to be a negative experience. It was supposed to be fun. I’m sorry.”
“I loved it,” I said honestly. “It was cathartic. I could envision my dad right in front of me, smiling, as I described every carefully planned sound. I just wanted him to hear it.”
Gray kissed my forehead and smiled. “Then tell him next time you see him. I’m sure he’d appreciate you remembering that day so clearly.”
I shook my head. “Not the story, Gray. I just wanted him to hear the song.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
“Gray, will you stop shoving food in my face? I’m gonna need a power scooter at the grocery store if you keep cramming nachos down my throat.” Sydney pushed the plate of nachos away from her and crossed her arms. I didn’t have the heart to tell her she’d dribbled salsa down the front of her sweatshirt.
I am a world-class idiot. Why did I press her to tell those kids a story?
She shook her head, reading my mind again. “I didn’t have to tell them that story, Gray, but it was nice to get if off my chest.” Glancing down at her chest, Sydney growled and wiped the salsa off with a napkin. “I mean, it was ten years ago.”
Tossing her wadded napkin at my face, she said, “Maybe I should have told them about your Porsche’s quinceañera?”
Blocking her shot, I snickered. “Don’t give those punks any ideas, Sinister. Besides, they would have picked up your guilt right away.”
“Guilt wasn’t the feeling that came to mind,” she joked, taking a sip of her soda. “But seriously, I don’t want to talk about it, and don’t mention Dad’s death to Jack. It was a really hard time for him. He lost his only friend that day.”
Sydney’s father had been in a logging accident that day. The truck’s trailer came loose, and when he stopped on a sparsely traveled logging road to inspect it, the whole thing toppled over. He wasn’t found for hours. Sydney and Jack were just sitting in his apartment, peeking through metal blinds, anticipating his return.
“Jack lost his father, too,” I added, feeling that now familiar sting of remorse coat my throat. “I’ve been such an ass to your brother. Why didn’t he tell me about this? No wonder he—”
“We don’t talk about it,” Sydney said quietly. “Jack and I have each another.”
“What about your mom?”
“You don’t get it.” Sydney smiled and shook her head. “Mom never cared. In fact, I think she was secretly glad Dad died. That meant she got us all to herself.”
“You can’t mean that, Sydney.”
“I do,” she snapped, then lowered her voice. “I’m all Jack has. He’s all I have. We look out for one another. Well, mostly, I look out for Jack.”
“Not anymore.” I laid my hand over hers. “I’ll look out for the both of you.”
“We don’t need to be ‘looked out for,’ Gray. I have this handled.”
“Sure you do,” I said, picking at her plate of nachos. “I’m onto you, Sydney. You act all tough and gruff, but deep inside, you’re a big softy. Sometimes you need to put your trust in someone else and let them inside. You can whip me senseless with your snarky words, but I’m not going any—”
“I never understood why people do that,” Sydney interrupted, clearly uncomfortable with our discussion. A disgusted look washed over her face as she jerked her head toward the corner of the diner. “It’s weird. Don’t you want to look someone in the face while you’re talking to them?”
Glancing over my shoulder, I spotted a couple sitting next to each other in a booth, facing the empty other side.
“Maybe they’re in love?” I flashed my eyes back to Sydney, and she focused down at her hands, smoothing them over her sweatshirt. “When people are in love, they want to be near one another. Is that so wrong? They want to touch one another.”
Continuing to avoid me, she moved her focus to the chipped speckled counter edge and picked at it with her finger.
“They already know the curve of her lips, every freckle on her face, and every speck of green in her coffee-colored eyes.” I stopped, and she briefly lifted her eyes to mine.
She knew I was talking about her, and it was making her nervous. Well, I was going to make my point.
“But sometimes they want to touch her skin. Sometimes they want to smell the spice in her hair and bury themselves in it. Sometimes they want to kiss her throat as she laughs, because the resulting vibration awakens every cell in their bodies.”
Raising her head, Sydney’s eyes spilled over my face, stopping at my lips. “Sounds like an intense threesome.”
When I left my side of the booth and settled next to her, I half expected she’d toss a fork my way or squirt Sriracha in my eyes. Instead, she rested her head against my chest, and I inhaled the fragrance released from her unruly dark locks.
I’d nearly admitted my love for Sydney, and she was holding on to to me like a lifeline.
As I wrapped my arm around her, the noises from the busy diner faded. “Now it’s time to laugh for me, Sydney.” Slipping her hair behind her shoulder, I kissed her neck.
“But it’s usually your face that makes me laugh, and I can’t see it,” she said, relaxing under my lips. “That small chip on your right incisor. Those uneven sideburns that drive Hasidic Jewish men crazy with jealousy. Your wandering eye tha—”
“Shut up.” I laid kisses across her jawline until finally she let out a full, deep laugh, sending that vibration rippling through her throat. “There it is.”
As I started to move a hand underneath her sweatshirt, a black leather billfold slapped onto the table.
“Can’t you lovebirds wait until later?” The gravelly voice of a lifetime smoker broke my hold on Sydney’s neck. We both turned toward a seventy-some-year-old woman in a stained apron with a mop of gray curls on her head. “So sick of you college kids thinking this is a brothel. I have to wipe the booths down more than the tabletops.”
Sydney laughed and reached for her bag, but I laid money on the table first. “Bad day, Lenore?” I asked, reading her aged, yellowed nametag.
Her rough hands snatched the money, and she shoved it in her apron pocket. “One day you’ll figure out it’s not all cuddles and butterflies. One day you’ll wake up after being with the same man for fifty years, and he’ll be trying on your compression stockings and dipping into your Rosalicious pink lipstick. Then you’ll be sorry because you’ve wasted your life on a jerk who’s been screwing your church pastor. The same church pastor who gave you marriage counseling. One da—”
“Lenore!” An old man wearing a paper chef’s hat and bright-red lipstick poked his head through the hot food pass. “Stop telling lies about me and get back here. Next order’s up.”
Lenore delivered a slow headshake of warning and turned back to the kitchen.
“Holy crap,” I said, watching Lenore hobble around the counter.
“That’s a good shade on him,” Sydney joked. Grabbing her bag, she glanced at her phone. “It’s four o’clock. Do you want to hang out some more, Professor Peters?”
“Yes, Miss Porter,” I answered, and she gave me a weird look. “Shit, I thought you were talking about role play.” I knew she wasn’t, but I loved that eye roll she gave me.
“Where are we going?” Sydney asked, flipping through the radio stations, hemming and hawing at each song. “Can’t they play anything decent? It’s all teenagers with boob jobs and voices so auto-tuned a parrot could do better.”
“I’m taking you out of the city,” I answered, entering the highway 30 on-ramp. “You did bring an overnight bag, right?”
I made an executive decision to take Sydney away from campus. Away from Katharine. Away from Sunday Lane. Away from the dark clouds looming over her head… and mine.
“Gray, are you kidnapping me?” Her shocked tone was laced with excitement.
“Yes. Twenty-four hours. It’s just going to be us. No Jack, Allison, Fernando, or Chance. I want you all to myself.” Giving her a sidelong glance, I tried to gauge her reaction. She’d pulled her hat down and was chewing nervously on her lower lip. “Or I can take you back to campus, and we can go our separate wa—”
“No,” she said, placing her hand on my lap. “I think I’d like to be kidnapped, but you have to be gentle.”
“Gentle?”
“Yes. The skin on my wrists and ankles is sensitive. No rough ropes.”
I shifted in my seat, trying to hide my growing erection. “Don’t test me, Sydney.”
Letting out a loud laugh, she rolled down the window and tapped her fingers along the frame. “So, Snake, where are you taking me? You headed west, and we’re on one of two highways leading to 101, hmmm.” A high-beam smile erupted on her face. “The coast?”
I nodded, and Sydney grabbed my hand, pulling it into her lap.
“I haven’t been to the coast since… well, since Dad.”
“Really? Well, it’s about time, Sinister. New beginnings, right?”
“For comrades,” she added.
