The fluorescent lights in the hallway of Westbridge High flickered like they always did, casting a sterile glow over the chipped linoleum floors. Emma Watson, seventeen and perpetually late, sprinted toward her last class of the day, her backpack thumping against her spine. Her dark hair was a tangled mess, half-tucked into a messy bun, and her sneakers squeaked with every step. She was a senior, one foot out the door of high school, dreaming of college and freedom. But today, something felt off. The air was too heavy, the world too quiet.
"Emma, you're gonna get detention again," Sarah called, catching up to her. Sarah, her best friend since third grade, was all sharp edges and sunshine—blonde curls, a quick laugh, and a knack for knowing when Emma was spiraling. She nudged Emma's shoulder, her green eyes glinting. "What's with you today? You look like you saw a ghost."
Emma forced a smile, shoving down the unease clawing at her chest. "Just tired. Chem test kicked my butt." It wasn't a lie, but it wasn't the whole truth either. She couldn't explain the knot in her stomach, the way her heart kept stuttering like it knew something she didn't. She shook it off, looping her arm through Sarah's as they pushed into English class.
Mrs. Hargrove was mid-lecture about The Great Gatsby when the classroom door creaked open. Principal Whitaker stood there, his tie crooked and his face pale. Emma's stomach dropped. Principals didn't just show up in the middle of class. Not unless something was wrong.
"Miss Watson," he said, his voice low, almost trembling. "Can you come with me, please?"
Every head in the room swiveled toward her. Sarah's hand grazed Emma's arm, a silent question. Emma nodded, her legs shaky as she stood and followed Whitaker out. The hallway felt colder now, the flickering lights more ominous. He didn't speak until they reached his office, where he closed the door with a soft click.
"Emma," he began, sitting across from her, his hands clasped too tightly. "I'm so sorry. There's been an accident."
The words hit like a punch, stealing her breath. She gripped the arms of the chair, her knuckles whitening. "What kind of accident?"
"Your parents' plane…" His voice cracked, and he looked away, unable to meet her eyes. "It went down on the way back from Japan. There were no survivors."
The room tilted. Emma's ears rang, a high-pitched whine drowning out Whitaker's apologies. Her parents—her mom with her warm laugh, her dad with his bad puns—gone. Just like that. She saw flashes of them: Mom packing her lunch with a Post-it note that said, You've got this, Em! Dad teaching her to ride a bike, running alongside her, cheering. They were supposed to be home tonight. They were supposed to take her to dinner to celebrate her scholarship essay getting shortlisted.
"Emma?" Whitaker's voice was distant, like he was speaking underwater. "Is there someone we can call?"
She shook her head, her throat too tight to speak. Her parents were her someone. They were her everything. And now… nothing.
Sarah found her outside the school, sitting on the curb, staring at the cracked pavement. The final bell had rung, and kids streamed past, their laughter jarring against the silence in Emma's head. Sarah dropped down beside her, not saying a word, just pressing her shoulder against Emma's like she could hold her together.
"You heard?" Emma's voice was hoarse, barely her own.
"Yeah." Sarah's eyes were red, but she didn't cry. She was trying to be strong for Emma, like always. "I'm so sorry, Em."
Emma nodded, her gaze fixed on a dandelion poking through a crack in the concrete. She wanted to scream, to rip the world apart, but all she could do was sit there, numb. "I need to go home," she said finally.
Sarah drove her, the radio off, the silence thick. Emma stared out the window, watching the world blur by—strip malls, oak trees, the life she'd known yesterday. When they pulled into the driveway of her two-story colonial, the sight of the house made her chest ache. The porch light was on, like her parents had left it for her. Like they'd be waiting inside.
Anna, the housekeeper who'd been with the Watsons since Emma was a kid, met her at the door. Her round face was blotchy, her eyes swollen. "Oh, Emma," she whispered, pulling her into a hug that smelled of lavender and dish soap. Emma didn't hug back. She couldn't feel her arms, her legs, her anything.
"I'll stay," Sarah offered, lingering in the foyer.
"No." Emma's voice was flat. "I need… I need to be alone."
Sarah hesitated, her brow furrowing. "Something's not right, Em. I can feel it. You don't have to go through this by yourself."
But Emma shook her head, already climbing the stairs. "I'll be okay," she lied.
In her room, she collapsed onto her bed, staring at the ceiling. Her parents' faces danced behind her eyes—Mom's crooked smile, Dad's goofy dance moves. She waited for tears, but none came. It was like her body had forgotten how to cry, how to feel. She curled into a ball, clutching her pillow, and let the darkness swallow her.
The next week was a blur of casseroles, condolence cards, and people Emma barely knew telling her how sorry they were. Anna handled most of the logistics—funeral arrangements, phone calls, keeping the house from falling apart. Emma drifted through it all, a ghost in her own life. Sarah stopped by every day, bringing coffee or dragging Emma outside for air, but nothing could pierce the fog.
Then Uncle Jonathan arrived.
He showed up on a rainy Tuesday, his black SUV gleaming in the driveway like a vulture circling. Jonathan was her dad's older brother, a man Emma had only met a handful of times at awkward family dinners. He was all sharp suits and sharper words, with a smile that never reached his eyes. Emma hadn't even known he was coming until he strode into the living room, his loafers leaving wet prints on the hardwood.
"Emma," he said, not hugging her, not even sitting down. "We need to talk about your parents' estate."
The word estate felt wrong, like it belonged to someone else's life. Her parents weren't rich, but they'd done well—her dad was an engineer, her mom a graphic designer. They had savings, investments, the house. Emma hadn't thought about any of it until now.
Jonathan spread papers across the coffee table, his voice clipped and businesslike. "Your parents didn't leave a clear will. As their closest living relative, I've been appointed executor. I'll handle everything."
Emma's stomach twisted. "Handle what?"
"The assets." He didn't look at her, just kept flipping through documents. "The investments, the savings, the vacation property in Maine. It's complicated, Emma. You're young. You don't need to worry about it."
"But… the house?" Her voice shook. The house was all she had left of them—the kitchen where Mom baked cookies, the backyard where Dad had built her a treehouse.
Jonathan's jaw tightened. "The house is yours. For now. But the rest… it's tied up in legalities. Taxes, debts. I'll take care of it."
Anna, who'd been hovering in the doorway, stepped forward. "Jonathan, she's just lost her parents. Can't this wait?"
His eyes flicked to Anna, cold and dismissive. "This is family business, Anna. Stay out of it."
Emma's hands clenched into fists. She wanted to scream, to tell him to leave, but the words wouldn't come. She was seventeen, alone, and he was the adult. What could she do?
By the time Jonathan left, the house felt emptier than ever. Anna sat with Emma at the kitchen table, sliding a mug of tea toward her. "He's a snake," Anna muttered. "Your parents would've wanted you taken care of, not… whatever he's doing."
Emma stared into the tea, the steam curling like ghosts. "What am I supposed to do, Anna? I can't fight him. I don't even know how."
Anna reached across the table, squeezing her hand. "You're stronger than you think, Emma. You'll figure it out."
Days turned into weeks, and the reality of her new life settled in like a bruise. Jonathan had drained her parents' accounts, sold the Maine cabin, and liquidated their investments. All Emma had was the house—and the bills that came with it. Property taxes, utilities, insurance. She was drowning, and she was still in high school.
Anna offered to help, but her salary as a housekeeper wasn't enough to cover the gaps. Emma couldn't ask her to do more; Anna was family, not a bank. So, one night, scrolling through a local job board on her laptop, Emma found an ad that caught her eye: Babysitter needed for two children, ages 6 and 8. Evenings and weekends. Sullivan residence, 112 Oakwood Lane. Competitive pay.
The Sullivans. Everyone in town knew them—old money, big house, whispers of scandal. Mr. Sullivan was a lawyer who worked in the city, rarely home. Mrs. Sullivan was… a mystery. Some said she was a recluse, others that she was hiding something. Their kids, Max and Lily, were known for being a handful. But the pay was good, and Emma was desperate.
She typed out an application, her fingers trembling. I'm reliable, good with kids, and available immediately, she wrote, hoping it was enough. The next morning, she got a call from Mrs. Sullivan herself, her voice cool and clipped. "Can you start tomorrow?"
Emma swallowed hard. "Yes."
The Sullivan house was a sprawling Victorian at the edge of town, all turrets and stained glass, surrounded by a wrought-iron fence. Emma stood at the gate, her heart pounding. She'd walked past this place a hundred times, always wondering what secrets it held. Now, she was about to find out.
Mrs. Sullivan answered the door, tall and thin, her blonde hair pulled into a severe bun. Her eyes scanned Emma like she was a piece of furniture being appraised. "You're Emma," she said, not a question. "The children are upstairs. Don't let them out of your sight."
Max and Lily were chaos in human form—Max with his wild curls and a penchant for throwing Legos, Lily with her sharp tongue and a stuffed rabbit she refused to let go of. But Emma was good with them, maybe because she understood what it felt like to be unmoored. By the end of the night, they were laughing, sprawled on the living room floor, building a lopsided Lego castle.
As she tucked them into bed, Lily grabbed her hand. "You're not like the other babysitters," she said, her voice small. "You don't yell."
Emma's heart twisted. "I'll be back tomorrow," she promised.
Driving home, the weight of the day settled over her. Her parents were gone. Her uncle had taken everything. And now, she was babysitting for strangers to keep the lights on. But for the first time since the plane crash, she felt a spark of something—purpose, maybe, or defiance. She wasn't going to let Jonathan win. She wasn't going to lose the house. And maybe, just maybe, the Sullivans' mysterious world would give her a way to fight back.