Mia's POV
The heavy door of the temporary room shut behind me with a dull finality, sealing me into a space that felt more like a holding cell than a bedroom. The room was clean, yes, but painfully bare. One narrow bed, a desk bolted to the floor, a metal chair tucked beneath it, and a shower stall behind a partitioned wall. It smelled of disinfectant, like no one had ever really lived here.
I stood there for a moment, unmoving, my backpack still slung over my shoulder. The silence was so absolute I could hear my own breathing, shallow and fast. This wasn't my room. It wasn't even close. My real room had drawings taped to the wall, a chipped ceramic mug where I kept pens, and the faint lingering scent of lavender from Chloe's gift. This was exile. And they put me here because they thought I had done it.
My hands curled into fists. My anger didn't come in loud waves this time. It simmered, low and sharp, burrowing deep beneath my skin. They should have known better. Ms. Collins. Ms. Tilda. All of them. They knew my history, my progress. And still, they let suspicion slip out into the halls like poison. Now everyone would be whispering again. Mia the threat. Mia the one who hurt Audrey. The one who might've hurt Tiffany.
The name hit me like a punch to the ribs. Audrey.
I sat down on the edge of the bed, suddenly too tired to stand. I had spent months trying to move past what I did to her. I had told myself I was changing, learning to be better. And I had. I really had. But now, I was right back where I started. Worse, even. Because this time, I hadn't done anything wrong.
A lump rose in my throat. I didn't fight it.
Tears slid down my face, hot and silent. I let them. I cried for Audrey. For Tiffany. For myself. For the pieces of me that still believed I could outrun the past.
Eventually, I wiped my eyes with my sleeve and glanced around. My gaze landed on a slim, unused notebook resting on the desk. Maybe it had been left by a previous resident, maybe it was put there on purpose. Either way, something in me pulled toward it.
I walked over, picked up the pen lying beside it, and opened to the first page.
Wednesday, 5.20 PM – Thursday, 7:00 AM
I had just arrived from school, changes into a pair of jeans and t-shirt, went to get a snack, played video games with Chloe and Trevor, had dinner, played some more, Chloe left, played more with Trevor before Chloe called me to her room.I tiptoed out of Chloe's room at 9.35 PM, thirty-five minutes after my curfew. She had called me excitedly, told me her boyfriend had texted her, and we talked for a long time. I was happy for her.
I went straight to my room. I changed, brushed my teeth, and got into bed. I don't remember much after that. I was exhausted.
The next thing I knew, Tiffany was screaming. I jumped out of bed and ran. Ms. Collins was already running toward her, Ms Tilda first telling us to go to our rooms, then moments later telling us to got take breakfast and prepare for school.
That's all I remember.
I stared at the words for a long time. They felt hollow, even though they were true. No evidence, no defense, just the truth. I dropped the pen. It clattered on the desk.
Sleep crept in, heavy and unwelcome. I crawled beneath the blanket and closed my eyes.
I dreamt I was back in a home that didn't exist.
Audrey and I were sisters, close in a way we had never been. Laura and Elias were our parents, but in this version, Laura was gentle and Elias made pancakes on Saturdays. There were no slamming doors, no bruised silences, no abuse, no confessions or cleansing. Just warm light, open arms, and a kitchen that smelled like cinnamon.
It felt so real I almost believed it. Almost.
But then I woke up.
Back in the room that wasn't mine. Back in the life that never let me forget who I had been.
Ms. Collins's POV
The office was still. Not quiet in a peaceful way, but the kind of stillness that settled after too many late hours and too much caffeine. My coffee mug, now half-cold and forgotten, sat perched near the edge of a disorganized desk littered with files and digital logs. My eyes stayed on the closed evidence folder in front of me, as though staring hard enough would change what was inside.
I wanted to believe Mia. God, I truly did. When she first arrived here, she was all sharp edges, defensive silence, and buried pain. But over time, I'd seen that edge dull. She'd begun speaking more in group sessions, taking responsibility, even showing care. I had watched her grow, cautiously, like something small and green pushing through frostbitten soil.
And now this.
The necklace had been found. The login records. The security footage. None of them were conclusive alone, but together, they formed something close to a story. Too close. One that pointed toward Mia. And still, I couldn't bring myself to close the case on her, not yet. Because one piece remained missing: the why.
What would drive Mia to do this? Especially to Tiffany. Mia had been kind to her, protective even. Tiffany looked up to her. There was no documented conflict. No sudden behavioral slide. If anything, Mia had been unusually stable these past few weeks.
So why?
I pinched the bridge of my nose, eyes stinging. I had combed the files, watched the grainy footage a dozen times. I had scrolled through access logs, timed statements, compared timestamps, reconstructed movements. I'd done everything right. By the book. Still, it felt wrong.
What if there was something deeper at play? Something we weren't seeing yet? What if Mia wasn't the one?
But those questions didn't matter yet. Until we had answers, my job was to protect every child under this roof.
Tiffany, Ava, Trevor, and Mia had been separated, each placed in a temporary room. No internet, no unsupervised movement. It was protocol, and it felt like punishment, but it was necessary. I had given the orders, and I had to live with that.
I checked my watch. 12:20 AM. The minutes had bled into hours again.
I sighed and shut the evidence folder. Its weight seemed to echo across the desk.
The hallway lights were low when I stepped out, and the door clicked shut behind me. The house was sleeping, or trying to. But I knew the silence in these walls. It was never truly still. Not when trust had been fractured.
Tomorrow, we would start again. Questions would be asked. Patterns examined. And maybe, if we were lucky, the truth would begin to show itself.
I only hoped it wasn't too late.
Ms. Tilda's POV
The temporary wing was steeped in a quiet so fragile, I feared even breathing too loudly would shatter it. My desk sat tucked at the junction of three hallway doors, a position I had taken up voluntarily. Tonight, I needed to be close. I needed to listen. I needed to know I was here if anything happened.
One earbud fed me soft jazz, the other remained free, tuned to every shift and creak of the building. The rooms around me held fragile pieces of this broken puzzle, Trevor, Ava, and Tiffany, each cocooned in their own spaces, safe but not whole.
And then there was Mia, exiled to another wing entirely. Her name had been pressing into the back of my mind all night like a splinter I couldn't dislodge. I didn't want to believe she was responsible. I had seen her come back from the edge before. I had stood beside her when she was too angry to speak, when she shook in therapy sessions but refused to cry. I had seen something rebuild itself inside her, piece by painful piece.
But the evidence. The necklace. The logs. The timing.
What kind of person did it take to dismantle that much progress in a single night?
A sound broke my spiral. A soft hiccup, half-muffled.
I was on my feet in seconds, already moving down the hall to Tiffany's room. Her door creaked slightly as I pushed it open. She sat upright in bed, tiny and trembling, eyes rimmed red, patting the sheets around her.
"Barnaby," she whispered. "Where's Barnaby?"
I scanned the room and spotted him, a small, well-loved bear now repaired, clean and whole, on her nightstand. I picked him up and handed him over. Tiffany clutched him instantly, breathing out like she'd been holding it in for hours.
"I've got you," I whispered, sitting on the edge of her bed. I rubbed slow circles on her back while pulling up a lullaby playlist on my phone. The soft notes drifted between us like a spell. Her breathing slowed. Her eyelids fluttered.
It took a while, but she finally drifted off, arms curled around Barnaby, chest rising and falling in peaceful rhythm.
I stayed there longer than I needed to.
Because I was angry.
Angry that someone had stolen this from her, the fragile peace we had spent so long helping her build. Angry that someone had pulled fear back into her nights. Angry that I didn't know for certain who it was.
As I closed her door quietly behind me, a sliver of light caught my eye under Trevor's door.
I knocked gently.
"Trevor?"
His voice came, tired but alert. "Yeah?"
"Just checking in."
The door cracked open. His eyes were puffy with exhaustion, but there was something more, doubt, maybe. Confusion.
"Did you find the perpetrator?" he asked.
I held his gaze, steady. "We're still investigating," I said. "We'll find the truth."
He nodded, slowly. "No school tomorrow?"
"That's right. I'll let your teachers know in the morning."
He gave a small nod and disappeared back inside. The door shut softly.
I returned to my desk.
The hallway was still again.
But the ache in my chest lingered.
We were doing everything we could. Still, it never felt like enough. Not when a child cried in the night. Not when another sat alone, accused. Not when truth felt as fragile as Tiffany's sleep.
But morning was coming. And with it, more answers.
I had to believe that.