Opening paragraphs to my work-in-progress, which is currently untitled

I have no title to this story quite yet, as I'm writing without much of an outline. As I write more I'll likely develop stronger characters and plot, which should result in a decent title. Until then, I'm posting these opening paragraphs to the story which I'm hoping will gain some constructive criticism. Thank you!

Murdered.
It was one word that claimed a hundred different possibilities --- who, when, where, why? --- and yet, it seemed overlooked to Rachel. As she listened groggily to the piercing scratch of the tree branches against the bricks of her house, thoughts of murder cases tore through her mind. Was it true? All those years of wondering, of wild assumptions. . . . Rachel shook her head in disbelief. The irritation inside of her mingled with the finality of the truth --- wasted years of wondering how her father had died, and now she knew. He was murdered.
The questions that immediately followed that fact were left unanswered; his murderer wasn't found, the cause unknown. The only piece of evidence Rachel believed to be genuine was the passion her mother had used when explaining his death. A look of desperation Rachel had never seen on her mother's face was convincing enough.
"Why would you tell me now?" Rachel had asked. "Why not tell me as a child?"
The answer was simple enough, simpler than she'd have expected: "I was afraid," explained her mother shakily. "Afraid that you'd have been misled, that you'd have been so drawn to the case that you'd grow up living on his death."
At the time, Rachel had been confused, but now, even after hours of constant attention, she was dumbfounded. Why would that be a reason to keep such a secret from her? If anything, the reason was suspicious. It sounded like some kind of line practised in the mirror for hours on end solely for the purpose of sounding believable.
Limp with exhaustion, Rachel forced herself to roll onto her side, gazing out the window that revealed a beautifully moonlit sky. She'd been creeping in and out of sleep for hours, and the moment her eyes would tear open, her thoughts screamed of her father. Then, the second her eyes would close, her mind was occupied with nightmares. Strange ones, Rachel thought, but they were supposed to be strange.
Silence coursed through the room, though it echoed so strongly that an exaggerated impatience began to creep up in her throat, as if hardly bearing the constant drip-drip-drip of a leaking tap. In a moment of sheer frustration, she tossed the pillow across the room. Her head smacked wearily on the mattress. Stupid, she scolded herself. There was no reason for her to get so worked up. Unaware of what was wrong, she tried to convince herself that, if it were her dad's death, she shouldn't be upset --- she never even knew the man.
But maybe that was the problem. She'd never even met her own father. Whoever killed him, she realized, had costed her a normal life and even got away with it, remaining unknown to the world.
At the thought of what could have been, her lips tightened into a straight line, eyes glaring out the window in grim humor. Oh, she could have had a normal life, but more than one factor was preventing it. She'd been born without a father to take care of her, yes, but she'd also been born with a knowledge that most children didn't have. As an elementary school student, she would excel in sciences and the arts. She'd come home with perfect marks, but one glimpse of her flawless report card made her mother share a look of shame rather than pride. Even present as a high schooler, Rachel would watch indignantly as her mother scowled at her grades.
It wasn't only the knowledge she'd attuned to, let alone the odd reaction she'd get from her mother, that played a role in her differentiality. It was also the numerous strange events that would follow after she displayed a strong desire for something, or portrayed a strong emotion. Once, she recalled with a twinge of concern, after her pet hamster had died of heat stroke, she went to bed praying she'd wake up to find it there, bounding around in its cage as if it were still young. When she next opened her eyes to the sunlight streaming in through her window, she'd pounced up from her bed, excitedly looking into the cage. In the spot where the hamster had laid, frozen in place, was a live hamster, eyes bright as if it had just woken up.
And it probably had.
Rachel was frightened, despite her wild hopes of waking up to find it alive again. That hope had been so strong that she'd actually expected it --- and she was a child, so she couldn't know better. But seeing the creature so livid inside of the cage again --- God. Rachel's mother hadn't taken it well; she'd been the one in the first place to declare her daughter's pet dead, but then there it was, live and bright, staring back at her with beady eyes. Of course, the hamster had been found in the same frozen posture as before only weeks later, but Rachel had no strong desire to see it awake again.
That event had only triggered the thought that Rachel was different. Originally she'd thought that it wasn't her doing, but after more unnatural occurrences, she'd been convinced otherwise.