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When 16-year-old Amelia moves to a quiet town and transfers to Crestwood High, she hopes to leave her past behind and start fresh. Shy and observant, she quickly realizes she doesn't quite fit in among the tightly knit groups of students who've known each other for years. But it isn't the cold stares or whispered gossip that unsettle her most-it's the messages. They start off small. A sticky note in her locker. A crumpled paper in her backpack. Simple phrases. Warnings. Questions about her past. Someone is watching her, someone who knows more than they should. As the notes grow more personal-and more disturbing-Amelia is forced to question everyone around her. The quiet boy in the back row. The overly friendly class president. Even her own memories. The messages never stop. And the sender is closer than she thinks.
Chapter 1 The new girl
Chapter 1: The New Girl
Rain clung to the windows of Blackridge High as the first bell rang. Amelia Brooks stood at the threshold of her new homeroom, clutching her backpack tighter than she needed to. Transferring in the middle of the school year wasn't ideal, but her family's sudden move to the quiet town of Elmsworth gave her no choice.
"You must be Amelia," said a tall woman in a burgundy cardigan. "I'm Mrs. Cartwright. Welcome. There's an open seat by the window."
Amelia gave a polite nod and made her way to the back. Heads turned, whispers followed her. She ignored them, sinking into the cold metal chair.
Lunchtime was worse. Everyone had their groups, their unspoken territories. Amelia found an empty table and opened her lunchbox. She had just bitten into her sandwich when a slip of paper slid across the table.
"You don't belong here."
She looked up, but no one was close. Her gaze darted around. A prank? Someone trying to mess with the new girl?
She crumpled the note and tossed it.
By the end of the day, she was exhausted. Her final class, English, offered a brief moment of peace. The teacher, Mr. Layton, was enthusiastic, the kind who actually seemed to care.
As class ended, Amelia reached into her backpack to pack her things-and found another note. Folded neatly. Her name written in cursive.
"Be careful who you trust. Not everyone is your friend."
Her hands trembled. She scanned the classroom. No one looked suspicious. Just tired teenagers eager to go home.
At home that night, her mother asked how her day went. Amelia lied. "Fine."
She reread the notes under her covers. The handwriting was neat, almost elegant. Not something she'd expect from a bully.
The next day, nothing happened. Then came Friday.
A third note appeared in her locker.
"The answers are in the library. But don't ask too many questions."
Amelia stood frozen, the note in her hand. What answers? Who was leaving these messages?
She turned toward the library, a chill running down her spine.
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