The Friday morning air in Haven Ridge was deceptively clean, scrubbed sterile by the scent of bleach and the low hum of fluorescent lights. On the surface, it was a place of order, a system designed to contain chaos. But beneath the polished linoleum and quiet hallways, anxiety simmered, clinging to the walls like a damp chill. Ms. Harper felt it in the tight set of her jaw as she began her morning rounds.
Most of the residents had already been herded onto the yellow school van, their chatter a brief, hollow echo in the cavernous building. Only a few remained, held back by the invisible web of the previous night's events.
She knocked gently on the door to the temporary room where Tiffany and Ava were staying. "Girls? Time to get up. Shower, then breakfast in the cafeteria." Muffled agreements answered her.
Next was Trevor. His door was ajar. He sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the floor, his usual boisterous energy gone, replaced by a brittle stillness. "Trevor," she said softly. "Same for you. Shower, breakfast." He nodded without looking up.
Finally, she arrived at Mia's door. She paused, her hand hovering over the wood. This was the hardest part. She knocked, the sound unnaturally loud in the quiet wing. "Mia?"
Mia opened the door a crack, her eyes wide and bruised-looking from a lack of sleep. "Ms. Harper?"
"You won't be going to school today, Mia," Ms. Harper said, keeping her voice level and professional, a shield against the sympathy that threatened to soften her. "Get yourself some breakfast. We'll give you further instructions after that."
Mia's face crumpled. "You believe me, right?" she whispered, the words raw and desperate. "I didn't do it. I would never."
Ms. Harper hesitated for a fraction of a second, but it was long enough for Mia to see it. The flicker of doubt, the professional distance that felt like a chasm. "We'll get into it, Mia," she said, the words feeling like a betrayal even as she spoke them. "We'll find the truth."
Mia stared, her expression shifting from pleading to stunned disbelief. The last person she thought would doubt her, the one who had offered her a semblance of stability, was now looking at her like a problem to be solved, a case file to be closed. The door clicked shut, and Ms. Harper was left standing in the hallway, the weight of the institution heavy on her shoulders.
The cereal tasted like soil. Mia forced down spoonful after spoonful of the bland flakes, the milk coating her tongue like chalk. She needed strength. That's what she told herself. Every swallow was an act of defiance against the suffocating dread that had settled in her chest. The cafeteria was nearly empty, the silence amplifying the scrape of her spoon against the bowl. Trevor sat three tables away, a solitary island of misery. He didn't look at her. The distance between them felt like miles of broken glass.
Back in her temporary room—a sterile box that smelled of fresh paint and nothing else—she waited. The silence was worse here. It was a listening silence, pregnant with anticipation. She paced the small space, her sneakers squeaking on the floor. She imagined the meeting happening somewhere else in the building. Ms. Collins, her face a mask of stern disappointment. Ms. Tilda, wringing her hands. They were talking about her, dissecting her, pulling apart the fragile life she had tried to build. The knock, when it came, felt inevitable, a judge's gavel rapping against her door.
In Ms. Reeves's office, the atmosphere was thick with methodical tension. The assembled staff—Ms. Collins, Ms. Harper, Ms. Tilda, and Mr. Anderson—sat around the large conference table. A rare presence lent the meeting an extra layer of gravity: Mr. Rodriguez, the district's lead guidance counsellor. He rarely visited Haven Ridge unless a situation was escalating toward a critical point.
He leaned forward, his fingers steepled. "Let's review the physical evidence," he said, his voice calm and analytical. "A decapitated teddy bear. A message in ketchup. A digitally altered photograph sent from a library computer. And a necklace." He paused. "The perpetrator supposedly wore gloves, correct?"
Ms. Collins nodded. "That's correct. The police report was clear on that."
"Then explain this to me," Rodriguez continued. "Why would someone be careful enough to wear gloves, but careless enough to leave a necklace engraved with their name? It doesn't add up."
A ripple of uneasy agreement passed through the room.
"We need objectivity," Ms. Reeves concluded. "Emma Sparks and Evans Campbell are on their way. We step back."
Later, after Mia's careful and emotional interview—and similar ones with Tiffany, Ava, and Trevor—Mrs. Sparks asked to see the rooms.
The girls' old room yielded nothing. On impulse, they checked Mia's old room. Nothing seemed unusual at first. Then Mrs. Sparks lifted a pillow and found a spiral-bound notebook.
At first, it was ordinary. Scribbles. Song lyrics. On one page, "I love Trevor" written with little hearts. Random doodles of initials. But halfway through, the tone shifted.
It became a plan. A horrifyingly specific one.
Camera blind spots. Shift schedules. Instructions to tamper with the bear. A list of psychological triggers for Tiffany. The final line read: "Mission accomplished."
The room fell into silence.
"How do we know it's hers?" Rodriguez asked.
Ms. Collins left, returned to Mia's room, and asked her gently to write her Wednesday to Thursday timeline.
Mia was relieved. She thought she was being trusted again.
She wrote slowly, carefully. Ms. Collins collected the paper, took it back, and laid it next to the diary.
Every loop, every letter was identical.
There was no doubt.
The room froze. The psychologists recommended professionalism, calm, and discretion moving forward.
As the others left, Ms. Collins stayed behind. Her face pale, she took out her phone, thumbed through her contacts, and made a call she hoped she'd never have to make.
"Ms. Douglas? This is Ms Collins. There's been an incident with Mia at Haven Ridge. I thought you should know."