Chapter 4: Whispers in the Hall
The smell of blood clung to me like a second skin. No matter how many times I scrubbed at my arms, I could still feel it seeping into my pores, thick and metallic, suffocating. And it was funny because I didn't touch the body. Alexander never even let me get close to it so why did it feel like it was a part of me now?
Yvette and Clara practically dragged me away after they found me and I let them. My legs moved, but it didn't feel like I was the one walking. My head was full of static, images flashing on a loop, Rose's pale face, the red-stained sheets, the way her hair had fanned out like she was only sleeping. Except she wasn't.
"She needs a bath," Yvette declared as if I weren't standing right beside her, voice sharp and commanding. That was Yvette, always taking charge in emergencies. "If she doesn't wash this off, she'll go into shock."
Clara slipped an arm around my shoulders, softer, more hesitant. "Izzy, come on, okay? Just a few steps more."
I didn't argue. Words felt foreign on my tongue anyway.
Yvette's room was two corridors down from mine, on the opposite wing, where the walls were painted a warmer cream instead of the dull gray I was used to. The moment she opened the door, I was hit by a wave of pink. Pink curtains, pink throw pillows, even a fluffy pink rug in the middle of the floor. Normally, I'd have teased her mercilessly about it, called it a princess cave or accused her of living inside a strawberry milkshake. But right then, I barely noticed.
They pushed me toward the bathroom, and Yvette shoved a towel into my hands. "Strip and wash off that paint in your hair, I'll find something for you to wear."
I obeyed. The hot water stung as it hit my skin, turning the paint into rivers of color swirling down the drain.
By the time I stepped out, my body was trembling, though I couldn't tell if it was from the steam or from everything clawing at my chest. Clara handed me a fresh uniform, her spare, neatly pressed and smelling faintly of lavender. It was a little tight around the waist, but it didn't matter.
I sank into Yvette's bed, surrounded by the ridiculous pink pillows, and stared at the ceiling.
They sat on either side of me, like sentries. For a moment, no one spoke. Then Yvette broke the silence, because of course she did.
"So what do you think?" she asked, her tone deceptively casual. "They'll solve it fast, right? The police, I mean. They'll find who did this."
Clara frowned. "Don't push her, Yve. She's still…"
"She needs to talk," Yvette interrupted, crossing her arms. "If she keeps it all inside, she'll drive herself mad. You saw her face."
I blinked at them both, trying to focus, but their voices sounded like they were underwater. The question lingered though. Do I think they'll solve it?
I let out a hollow laugh that didn't sound like me. "I don't know what to think. None of this makes sense. I didn't even talk to her."
Rose. Rose with her sharp eyes and sharper tongue. Rose who had walked into St. Augustine's like she owned the place despite her scholarship status. Rose who made sure everyone knew she was top of her class, except I was always there, neck and neck with her.
We weren't friends. We weren't enemies, not exactly. Just two forces orbiting the same sun, colliding whenever grades or recognition put us on the same battlefield.
But dead?
I pressed my fingers to my temples, trying to chase the fog away. "She didn't like me. That much was obvious. But this? Why her? Why was she in my room?"
Neither of them answered. Maybe they couldn't.
Yvette squeezed my hand. "Izzy, it's going to be fine. They'll find the killer. You didn't do anything. Everyone knows that."
But I wasn't so sure.
Because when the police had questioned me earlier, the detective's eyes had lingered a little too long. His words had been too sharp, his tone too knowing. Were you close with Rose? Did you ever argue? Did you resent her for being a threat to your grades? Did you invite her to your room?
The implication had been clear, even if he hadn't said it outright.
And what if the others thought the same?
My chest tightened, a cold panic crawling up my throat. I couldn't breathe.
Clara noticed first. She grabbed my shoulders, shaking me gently. "Izzy, hey, look at me. It's going to be okay. Don't spiral, alright? You didn't kill her."
I nodded because that was what they wanted, because if I opened my mouth, I might scream. "Yeah. The police will handle it. They'll… resolve it."
But even as I said it, I fought hard to believe it.
Days blurred together after that.
Classes resumed, but my seat in the front row felt like a spotlight. Whispers rose whenever I entered a room. Conversations cut off suddenly, followed by darting eyes and poorly concealed smirks.
By the third day, the whispers had sharpened into rumors.
She hated Rose.
She was jealous.
Did you hear the body was in her bed?
Who else could it have been?
I pretended not to hear, chin held high, back ramrod straight. But each word burrowed into me like a thorn.
Even some of the teachers looked at me differently now, hesitation before calling on me, sidelong glances when I answered too quickly, too perfectly.
The investigation dragged on with no updates. No arrests. No answers. Just silence. And in that silence, gossip grew like mold.
By the end of the week, I couldn't tell which was heavier: the grief I didn't quite understand or the suspicion pressing down on me from all sides.
On Friday afternoon, I was walking alone across the quad, the autumn wind biting at my cheeks, when I heard it.
"Isabella!"
My name, carried on a voice I knew instantly. Warm, familiar, steady.
I froze, then spun, and my heart leapt into my throat.
There he was, tall and smiling, his bag slung carelessly over one shoulder like he hadn't been gone for months.
"Mateo!" I breathed, and before I knew it, I was running. Running straight into him, arms wrapping tight around his middle.
For the first time since Rose's body had been found, I felt the smallest flicker of relief.
Because Mateo was back.
And maybe, just maybe, I wouldn't have to face this nightmare alone anymore.