There's something about silence that makes the truth itch.
Tessa Monroe hated silence. Not the comforting kind that came at night when everyone was asleep and the world took a breath—but the thick, suffocating kind that forced your mind to replay the worst parts of your memory. The kind that reminded her of the day her world cracked like cheap glass—of the moment her joy went missing, along with everything else that mattered.
Today, that silence curled around her like smoke, sitting beside her in the last seat of Room 3B. It hung in the air like a bad omen. The room itself didn't help—it smelled like bleach and bad decisions. A dusty ceiling fan turned just slow enough to be annoying, creaking faintly with every rotation. Three tired fluorescent bulbs flickered above, humming like mosquitoes, casting everything in a sickly yellow light.
It was only 3:05 p.m., but Tessa already regretted breathing.
Detention. Again.
This time, for allegedly shoving Honey Daniels in the hallway yesterday—which, for the record, was not even a proper shove. More like a "move or I'll move you" shoulder nudge. But Honey had dramatically staggered like Tessa had shoved her off a cliff. Mr. Joe, of course, had seen everything and nothing at once. Typical.
Tessa leaned back in her chair and stared at the cracked whiteboard in front of her, its surface smeared with ghost-like remnants of past lessons. She wasn't alone—five other students were seated in the room, each one a walking puzzle piece that didn't quite fit with the others. They stared blankly ahead, shifting in their seats, the shared atmosphere tinged with something that felt too uneasy to be normal.
Because this wasn't your average detention crew. This group was…off. Like a storm was coming and they were the eye of it.
Skye Morgan sat closest to the windows, her sharp jawline slightly tilted as she scribbled furiously into a sketchbook. Skye always seemed like she existed in a different realm, one where the rules of this world didn't quite apply. Her hands moved like she was translating thoughts from another dimension. She was here for painting a mural—on the back wall of the girls' restroom. A massive, abstract piece in shades of red and black that the janitor had nearly fainted over. When asked why she did it, Skye had shrugged and said, "Some walls are meant to speak." No one knew when she had the time—or the courage—but that was classic Skye: unpredictable and unapologetic.
Across the room, Jace Carter sat with his legs sprawled like he owned the place. He didn't look at Tessa. Of course not. They hadn't spoken since… that night. The one they both pretended never happened. Word was, he'd broken the football coach's nose last Wednesday. No explanation. Just walked out with blood on his knuckles and silence on his lips. Maybe he liked the sound of breaking things. Or maybe he was already broken inside.
Caleb Walker leaned back two seats over, arms crossed like he was observing a science experiment. Cool. Detached. He'd earned his seat here by calmly disagreeing with a teacher during class. No shouting. No insults. Just calm defiance. He'd called it "educational laziness." Ridgewood High had a zero-tolerance policy for smart mouths, apparently.
Then there was Logan Brooks, tapping out a rhythm on his desk with a black pen. His fingers moved like they had a purpose of their own, steady and strange. He hadn't said much since he walked in, but his presence filled the room like smoke—thick, impossible to ignore. Tessa had overheard a teacher whisper something about "a concerning altercation" when his name was mentioned. No one knew what it meant, but it sounded… dark.
Beside him sat Mila Jensen—perfectly polished Mila with her flawless French manicure and that expensive, impossible-to-mess-up hair. She looked like she'd been dropped into detention by mistake. Her offense? Accidentally spilling her caramel macchiato on the principal's freshly waxed car. Mila claimed it was an innocent mistake—too much multitasking, not enough sleep—but the principal hadn't been impressed. Especially when she tried to dab the spill with a silk scarf from her designer bag. Classic Mila: damage control with style.
Six students. One room. No teacher.
Tessa checked the dusty clock again. 3:10 p.m.
Still no Mr. Joe.
She tapped her fingers on the desk, each beat louder than it should've been.
Mila sighed dramatically and crossed her arms. "Ugh. Where is Mr. Joe? We're wasting time."
"Maybe he's late," Logan said quietly, barely lifting his gaze.
"He's never late," Caleb replied, his voice steady. "And the door's locked from the outside."
Everyone froze.
Tessa blinked. "Wait—what?"
Skye stood up instantly and walked over to the door. She pulled the handle once, then again. Nothing.
"I tried it already," Caleb continued. "Someone locked us in."
Skye hit the door softly with her palm. "We really are locked in. And I don't find it funny."
Caleb raised an eyebrow. "Does it look like anyone is laughing? Did I say a joke?"
Mila scoffed and reached instinctively for her pocket. Her hand paused mid-motion. "Wait. My phone's not on me." She patted her pockets again, frowning. "Where's my phone?"
"We handed them over," Jace muttered from his seat, still not looking up. "Standard detention rule. Turn in your phone at the door."
"Oh. Right." Mila's frown deepened. "Still feels weird to be without it."
No one responded.
Then—buzz.
A phone vibrated. Loud and sudden, cutting through the tension like a blade.
Everyone turned.
It came from Jace's bag.
He frowned and reached inside slowly, pulling out a black phone. Not his. Tessa knew Jace's phone—sleek, cracked in the corner, a dead rose sticker on the back. This one looked newer. Clean.
"This isn't mine," he said slowly, eyes narrowing. "Whose phone is this?"
Everyone shook their heads.
"Not mine either."
He set the phone on the desk carefully. The screen lit up.
Unknown Number: 1 New Message
"A message" Jace said looking at the screen
Caleb stepped forward quickly. "Don't open it."
Too late.
The message popped open on its own, bright and deliberate.
Jace read it out
Only one of you walks out clean. Tell the truth, or someone else will. Tick tock.
Silence swallowed the room.
Tessa's heart slammed against her ribs. Her fingers curled into fists beneath the desk. She could feel her pulse thudding in her ears, her skin prickling.
She had a secret.
So did everyone else.
And someone was about to blow everything wide open.