The news didn't travel through the school like a whisper; it traveled like a shockwave. By first period, the "Static" was at a deafening frequency. People weren't just talking; they were vibrating. Jax was missing. His car was still behind the bar, but he was gone.
The halls felt tighter, the air heavier. Every time a locker slammed, I felt the vibration in my teeth. I kept my hood up, my noise-cancelling active, and my eyes glued to the scuff marks on the linoleum. I just needed to be a ghost. Ghosts don't have motive. Ghosts don't have hands that can hold a wire.
But I wasn't a ghost to the two men standing outside the principal's office.
They were wearing suits that didn't fit right and expressions that were too sharp for a Monday morning. Detectives. One of them, a man with a grey tie and eyes like flint, stepped into my path.
"Elara Vance?"
The sound of my name in his voice was like a hammer hitting a nail. I froze. My internal filter started to glitch. The white noise in my ears began to hiss, a high-pitched warning that my sanctuary was being breached.
"We'd like to talk to you for a moment. About yesterday afternoon. In the hallway."
They led me into a small, cramped side office. The room was a sensory nightmare. A fluorescent light overhead was flickering with a rhythmic, electric buzz-click. A radiator in the corner was hissing. The detective with the grey tie sat across from me, his pen clicking—click, tap, click.
"We heard there was an incident. Between you and Jax Miller. A witness says he was aggressive toward you. That he threatened you."
I stared at his tie. I couldn't breathe. My throat was a desert, the muscles locking tight. The Selective Mutism wasn't a choice today; it was a cage. I wanted to tell them I didn't know where he was. I wanted to tell them I was afraid of him. But the words were buried under twelve years of ash.
The news didn't travel through the school like a whisper; it traveled like a shockwave. By first period, the "Static" was at a deafening frequency. People weren't just talking; they were vibrating. Jax was missing. His car was still behind the bar, but he was gone.
The halls felt tighter, the air heavier. Every time a locker slammed, I felt the vibration in my teeth. I kept my hood up, my noise-cancelling active, and my eyes glued to the scuff marks on the linoleum. I just needed to be a ghost. Ghosts don't have motive. Ghosts don't have hands that can hold a wire.
But I wasn't a ghost to the two men standing outside the principal's office.
They were wearing suits that didn't fit right and expressions that were too sharp for a Monday morning. Detectives. One of them, a man with a grey tie and eyes like flint, stepped into my path.
"Elara Vance?"
The sound of my name in his voice was like a hammer hitting a nail. I froze. My internal filter started to glitch. The white noise in my ears began to hiss, a high-pitched warning that my sanctuary was being breached.
"We'd like to talk to you for a moment. About yesterday afternoon. In the hallway."
They led me into a small, cramped side office. The room was a sensory nightmare. A fluorescent light overhead was flickering with a rhythmic, electric buzz-click. A radiator in the corner was hissing. The detective with the grey tie sat across from me, his pen clicking—click, tap, click.
"We heard there was an incident. Between you and Jax Miller. A witness says he was aggressive toward you. That he threatened you."
I stared at his tie. I couldn't breathe. My throat was a desert, the muscles locking tight. The Selective Mutism wasn't a choice today; it was a cage. I wanted to tell them I didn't know where he was. I wanted to tell them I was afraid of him. But the words were buried under twelve years of ash.
"Elara? You need to speak up. Did you see him after school? Did he follow you?"
The detective leaned forward. The click-click-click of his pen became the only sound in the universe. It was an axe chopping wood. It was a countdown. My vision started to fray at the edges, the "Static" turning into a blinding, roaring storm. My hands began to shake, my fingers clawing at the plastic of my headphones. I was losing the signal. I was going to break.
The door to the office swung open.
It didn't bang against the wall; it opened with a firm, deliberate grace.
"She can't answer you."
Lia stood in the doorway. She looked different today—not soft, not shimmering. She looked like a shield. She walked into the room and stood directly beside my chair, her hand resting firmly on my shoulder. The weight of her palm was the only thing keeping me from spinning off the earth.
"She has a documented anxiety disorder and selective mutism," Lia said, her voice perfectly level, cutting through the detective's interrogation like a cool breeze. "You're hovering over her and clicking that pen, and you're triggering a panic attack. You're not going to get anything but a hospital bill if you keep this up."
The detective stopped clicking. He looked at Lia, then back at me. I was gasping now, my chest heaving in silent, jagged hitches.
"We're just asking questions, miss—"
"I'm Lia. And I was with her," Lia lied. The words were so smooth, so effortless, I almost believed them myself. "After the incident with Jax, I walked her home. She was shaken up. She stayed in her room at the orphanage all night. I checked in on her. She hasn't seen him since he yelled at her in the hall."
Lia looked down at me, her thumb stroking the fabric of my hoodie. "She's terrified of him. Can't you see that? He's a bully, and now he's gone, and she's probably worried he's going to jump out of a corner. You're making it worse."
The flint-eyed detective sighed, closing his notepad. The aggressive energy in the room shifted, turning from suspicion to a reluctant, awkward pity.
"Fine. We have her statement through you, I suppose. Just... if she remembers anything, have her social worker call us."
They left. The room went quiet, save for the hum of the light.
Lia didn't let go of my shoulder. She leaned down, her hair falling like a curtain between us and the rest of the world.
"It's okay," she whispered. "The noise is gone now. I've got you."
I looked up at her, my vision finally clearing. Lia was smiling that same sweet, honey-warm smile. But for the first time, I noticed something in her eyes. It wasn't just pity. It was a strange, sparking intensity.
She had lied for me. She had protected the "Ghost Girl."
I reached up and slowly adjusted my headphones, settling them back into place. For a second, I wondered if Lia wasn't a signal at all. Maybe she was the only person who understood that in a world this loud, a well-placed lie was the quietest thing of all.