He didn't tell me his name.
But his words wouldn't leave my head. "Not everyone's glad your family is gone."
What did he mean?
And why did he warn me not to say who I was?
Could my parents' deaths still matter to someone here?
Could someone in this school… care enough to hate me?
I didn't know. But right now, I have to find my class.
The bell had already rung. The hallway was nearly empty, my footsteps echoing on the polished floors. My schedule card trembled slightly in my hand as I walked past rows of framed photos smiling students, trophies, awards, perfect lives that felt like lies compared to mine. A part of me envied them.
"Class 10-B," I whispered, scanning the door numbers.
When I finally found it, I paused, took a shaky breath, and stepped inside.
The room fell silent.
Dozens of eyes turned toward me, curious, amused, cold. I froze in the doorway.
"Can I help you?" the teacher asked. She was tall, with glasses and hair pulled back neatly.
"Um… I'm new," I managed.
"And your name?"
"Whitmore. Rose Whitmore," I whispered, barely finding my voice.
She checked the roster, then nodded. "Whitmore, yes. The empty seat by the window."
I walked through the rows, each whisper behind me cutting deeper than the last:
"Whitmore?"
"Wait like the company?"
"Didn't they go bankrupt?"
"I heard her parents died because of something shady…"
"Quiet," the teacher snapped, but the whispers had already sunk into my skin.
I sat down, staring at my notebook. The girl beside me subtly shifted her chair away. My hands trembled as I pulled out my pen. The lesson became a distant hum. All I heard was that boy's warning, looping loudly in my mind:
Not everyone's glad your family is gone.
When the bell rang for lunch, I waited, letting everyone else leave first. But the moment I stepped into the hallway, laughter rose sharp, slicing, meant for me.
"Hey, maid girl."
I turned. A group of girls leaned against the lockers. The ringleader, all glossy hair and perfect pink nails, smiled like she owned the school.
"We heard you live with Samantha's family," she said.
My mouth went dry. "...Yes."
"So it's true," she said proudly. "And they said you clean their house too?"
"No.."
Another girl cut in with a laugh. "Don't lie. My cousin works with Beatrice Whitmore. She said they took you in out of pity."
Giggles erupted.
"I heard she used to live in the countryside," another added. "Probably doesn't even know how to turn on a dishwasher."
My chest tightened. My legs refused to move.
Just then, another group walked by two boys and a girl with kind eyes. The girl paused.
"Hey, you're the new girl, right? I'm Mira. You're from the countryside?"
"Yeah…" I replied softly. They would believe whatever they wanted anyway.
"Cool," Mira said gently.
But one of the boys smirked. "Country girl in St. Helena's? That's new."
Mira shot him an annoyed look, but it didn't matter. My face burned.
I finally walked away fast, desperate.
I found a lonely spot beneath a tree in the courtyard. Students sat in groups, laughing, sharing meals that tasted better than mine ever would. I unwrapped my sandwich but couldn't swallow. The bread felt like paper. My stomach twisted.
The bell rang again, and relief washed over me.
Back in class, I kept my head down, scribbling notes without seeing any of them.
By the final bell, my head throbbed. My chest felt tight, like something inside me was breaking.
Uncle Albert's driver waited outside. I rode home in silence, watching the city lights blur through the glass. My reflection looked pale, tired, worn down.
Beatrice's car was in the driveway when we arrived.
Inside, I heard laughter and the clink of dishes. They were sharing snacks.
I stood at the dining room door, observing the warm glow, the perfect family scene. Then I stepped in.
"Good evening," I said softly.
Beatrice barely looked up. "You're late."
"I came straight from school."
"You should learn to be faster," she replied coldly.
I sat in the corner. The maid placed a snack and juice before me, but I barely touched them.
Samantha leaned close to her mother, not bothering to lower her voice. "Mom, everyone talked about her today. They said she told people she's Whitmore."
I froze.
Beatrice's gaze sharpened. "Did you?"
"I… I didn't. The teacher asked, and I just.."
"Rose," she said icily, "you will not speak of that name again. That chapter is closed. Do you understand?"
I swallowed. "Yes, ma'am."
Uncle Albert gave me a look I couldn't read. "After dinner, clean my study. It's a mess."
"Yes, Uncle."
No one spoke to me again.
After dinner, I washed my plate and went upstairs. The house was quieter now. The clock ticked softly.
I opened the study door. The room smelled of old paper, coffee, and men's cologne. Books filled the shelves. Papers cluttered the desk.
I dusted the shelves. Then, as I cleaned the desk, a folder slipped and papers scattered across the floor.
I knelt to gather them.
That's when I saw it.
A thin file labeled:
WHITMORE CASE
My breath caught.
I opened it with trembling hands.
Photos of my parents. Newspaper clippings. Reports.
And the line that shattered me:
Investigation suspended. Cause of accident unconfirmed. Case closed.
My heartbeat roared in my ears.
Another line:
Request to reopen denied.
Why?
Why didn't they keep searching?
My vision blurred as memories hit me of the smoke, shattered glass, heat on my skin, my mother's scream that I could never hear clearly again.
I didn't even hear the footsteps behind me until her perfume filled the room.
Beatrice.
"What do you think you're doing?" Her voice sliced through the air.
I jumped, hiding the file behind me. "I…I was just cleaning"
"That file is not yours."
Her hand extended sharply. "Give it."
"Why isn't my parents death investigated"
I said while I handed the file to her, shaking.
She snatched it, eyes like frozen steel. "You should be grateful we took you in when no one else wanted you. We gave you shelter, a school… and this is how you repay us? Snooping?"
"I wasn't…"
"Enough."
Her voice cracked like a whip.
"You will not speak about your parents again. You will not touch anything in this house. Am I clear?"
Tears stung my eyes. "Yes… ma'am."
She leaned close, her voice low and venomous.
"You are lucky we accommodated you at all. Don't forget that."
Her words burned.
"Finish cleaning," she said, stepping back. "Then go to your room."
She closed the door quietly but the sound felt like a final blow.
Alone
I stared at the empty space where the file had been.
They didn't investigate my parents' deaths.
They let it fade.
Like my parents and I didn't matter.
The tears came before I could stop them.
I ran from the study, up the stairs, to my room. My breaths were sharp and painful.
I shut the door behind me and slid down to the floor, shaking.
"Why?" My voice cracked.
"Why won't they investigate my parents' death?"
The words fell out of me, raw and broken.
Nothing could stop the ache in my chest.