I first noticed her on the second day of school. She didn’t just walk down the hallway; she moved with this effortless rhythm that made everyone else seem clumsy in comparison. I noticed her because she didn’t move like anyone else. Everyone else shuffled, heads down, trying not to collide with lockers or each other, pretending they didn’t exist. She didn’t pretend. She existed, full stop, and it was impossible not to notice.

I knew she didn’t belong here. Not in Beacon Hills. She didn’t just walk down the hallway; she glided. Boots barely touching the linoleum, scarf fluttering like a ribbon caught in a gentle breeze, hair faded pink, soft and slightly messy, but in that deliberate, city-girl way that makes you think she spent hours just to look effortless.

People whispered. People stared. People avoided her. She didn’t care. She didn’t even glance at them. The aura around her made you feel like you were intruding on a secret you weren’t invited to. She leaned against a locker, hip cocked, head tilted slightly, like she was waiting for something interesting to happen—or like she was the interesting thing. And she was.

First period, English. I glanced up from my notebook, and there she was—sliding into a seat three rows from the front, backpack slung over the chair like it was a weapon. She didn’t make eye contact with anyone. She didn’t care if anyone noticed her. Her notebook was filled with jagged sketches in the margins, shapes that seemed almost alive, like they’d crawl off the page if given the chance.

She didn’t raise her hand, didn’t laugh at jokes, didn’t answer questions. And yet… she knew everything. Not in a smug way, not the way a kid who’s just smart would, but in a precise, measured way. When the teacher asked a question and everyone froze, she answered with a sharp clarity that made the rest of the class look like they were reading from different textbooks.

Lunch in the cafeteria was chaos. Tables were sticky with spilled soda, conversations blaring over each other. She walked in like a comet cutting through the noise. Not trying to fit in, not trying to avoid anyone, just moving. I noticed the way people gave her space without really knowing why, like a storm warning had passed across the room.

The library is where I went there to get some quiet work done, and there she was, tucked into a corner like she owned the shadows. Her notebook lay open, pencils scattered, and she was sketching. I leaned back behind a shelf and watched, mesmerized.

Hallway encounters were brief but electric. She’d pass, shoulders straight, boots clomping softly against the linoleum, hair shifting in impossible shades. A sideways glance, and you felt her analyzing you, weighing you, deciding if you were worth her attention. Most people avoided her. Some whispered. Others stared too long. But she never reacted. Ever.

I was in my dad’s office, trying to finish a math assignment before the weekend, when the deputy walked her in. Handcuffs clicked. She leaned against the wall, calm as anything, boots planted firmly on the floor.

Parish glanced between us. “Name’s on the report. Vandalism. She was caught at an abandoned warehouse downtown. Spray paint.”

I blinked. She’s been doing the graffiti?.

“I’d like to clarify,” she said softly, voice sweet but deliberate. “if you read Section 15, Paragraph C of Beacon Hills municipal code, abandoned property isn’t considered ‘private property’ in the strictest sense.”

The sheriff raised an eyebrow.

I could barely breathe. She was adorable—faded pink hair, sparkling eyes—but also formidable, calm and sharp in a way that made me think she could talk her way out of almost anything.

“I intended no damage. The graffiti was… artistic expression. And while I accept that the municipality may not appreciate the aesthetic…” She gestured vaguely at her hands, lightly stained with paint, “…I am confident that technically, no laws were broken beyond the minor application of pigments, which I am more than willing to clean.”