After my good friend Rachel Morgan was dragged into a cornfield and raped, she killed herself. I protected the murderer.

She was my closest companion, the one who sat awake beside my bed when I was ill.

She was also the most loyal friend, the one who scratched at a bully's hand when a village kid tormented me.

And I destroyed the evidence.

Everything I did that night was hide a secret I could never reveal to anyone.

I was standing by the stove when Rachel's mother burst in.

Her eyes were rimmed with red as she glared at me: "Clara Dawson! Why? Rachel was raped while she was bringing your birthday cake!"

I shut my eyes against the pain and, without thinking, pushed the proof into the flame.

——

"Tell me! Why did you protect the murderer?"

"Why did you burn the cake box? What did it hold?"

Rachel's mother, furious and eyes wet, dragged me to Rachel's funeral parlor.

In the black-and-white photograph, Rachel's face held no smile as she stared back at me. I said, "Linda Harris, I didn't."

"We were short on firewood, and I burned the box because it was useless."

Of course, I could not tell her that the murderer's fingerprints were on the cake Rachel had given me.

She flung a suicide note at my face.

"What is this!"

"Rachel's note says she heard your voice when she was assaulted, and that the beast must have passed your door on his way out."

Her eyes were bloodshot. She shoved my head, so I had to look at the photo of Rachel hanging herself.

"See for yourself! Look how tragically Rachel died!"

"You were best friends. She cared for you with all her heart. How could you do nothing while she died in such a horrible way?"

I knew she wanted to stir my guilt.

I fought to look away and answered with as much truth as I could:

"Rachel is dead. I'm sad too, but I truly don't know who killed her. How could I tell you?"

Three days earlier, the day Rachel brought me the birthday cake. She was attacked outside the cornfield across from my room. No one else knew.

That night, she hanged herself at home.

She left a note. Because she mentioned it in the note, I called, "Who's there?"

The whole village suspected I had seen the attacker.

Because my reputation in the village was poor, people assumed I was protecting the killer.

That thought amused me.

But they were right; I was protecting the murderer.

Linda slapped me: "Clara, how can you be so cold? Your best friend is dead, and you're still smiling!"

"Our Rachel had just turned eighteen and been accepted to a top university. She was so young, with a future, and it was stolen by a monster!"

When I stayed silent, she gripped my hand and begged coldly:

"Clara, why won't you tell the truth? You and Rachel were close, you shared everything. Rachel always said you were honest."

"She was murdered. Don't you want to find the culprit and get justice?"

I sighed. "Linda, whatever righteousness you demand, it cannot conjure facts. If I knew, I'd tell the police." Linda's face hardened.

"Do you know how many years someone gets to hide a rapist?"

I know harboring a rapist is a joint offense.

The sentence ranges from three to ten years.

But I think it's worth it.

"I know it's three to ten years," I said calmly. Linda flew into a fury, pointing and cursing, "How dare you protect that beast?"

"Once the police find proof, do you think you'll be safe? Aren't you afraid that by then your grandmother will be gone and there will be no one to take care of her body?"

I shouted, “Then let the police investigate! I didn’t kill her, so why keep harassing me? Do you think I’m easy to bully just because I have no parents?”

In the two days since Rachel’s death, my front door had practically been kicked in.

Everyone was clamoring for me to name the murderer.

Honestly, I was fed up.

Rachel’s father, Samuel Morgan, finally snapped. “How can anyone be so cold-blooded?”

“You’ve been a thief since childhood, stirring up trouble everywhere. Only Rachel would still play with you. Now she’s dead, and you dare talk like this! You’re worse than pigs and dogs!”

The villagers pointed and cursed:

“I always said she wasn’t any good. When our Erwa scolded her, she nearly bit his ear off. She’s like a mad dog—vindictive!”

I glared coldly at Tommy Baker’s mother, and she flushed before snapping:

“Look at those eyes! I said she had bad intentions!”

“Maybe she found the rapist!”

“Remember when she was little? She said she wanted to kill everyone in our village!”

My parents died young, and I have lived with my elderly grandmother ever since.

The children mocked and bullied me, shaping me into a competitive and vindictive person.

If someone hurt me, I struck back tenfold or a hundredfold. That’s why the whole village hated me. Whether I caused trouble or not, it was always my fault. Rachel died, and instead of chasing the murderer, they came to accuse me.

A rock struck my head, blood streaming down. More stones followed, hurled with a rage that filled the air. My scalp split and throbbed, and just as the mob’s fury threatened to tear me apart, a familiar voice cried out: “No! Clara isn’t what you think!”

It was my childhood friend, Emily Carter. She was the only one besides Rachel who had ever stood by me. She shielded me with her own body from the villagers’ blows.

On the day Rachel died, Emily collapsed in shock, burning with a high fever. Her father drowned in the river while rushing her to the hospital. I thought she was busy with Robert Carter’s funeral, but she still came to save me.

“The three of us are best friends. Clara couldn’t have harmed Rachel!”

Tears welled in her eyes. “Clara, I don’t believe you’d protect a criminal! You hate seeing Rachel or me hurt.”

“Last month, Johnny Baker from the next class broke Rachel’s hand. You hit him with a brick. How could you shield a murderer?”

Her smile was uglier than tears, her eyes dark with memory.

“Clara, we’re closer than sisters. Tell me! Did you see the killer?”

I stared at her pale, bloodless face. Her anxious eyes clung to me.

I brushed her hand away, a hint of mockery on my lips.

Yes, I did.

That night, I’d been up late doing homework.

The wind howled outside, and faint noises rose from the cornfield.

It sounded like voices. Startled, I shouted, “Who’s there?”

Silence. Only the wind’s whistle.

I thought I’d misheard, that it was an animal.

Then a dark figure flickered past my window.

I saw that person.

Emily really was like a sister; she read my face at once.

She stared at me as if I were a stranger.

"Clara, did you actually see it?" Her voice trembled, almost hoarse.

I nodded in silence: "Yes, I did."

So, can you stop asking?

Emily shook me hard, desperate for an answer.

"Who am I? Who deserves your protection?"

"We're best friends. Why would you hide a rapist?"

I knew—Emily knew me too well—and she had sensed something. My cover was slipping; she would dig into it.

So I chose to strike first and seize the moral high ground:

"Really? Do you consider me a friend?"

Her grip on my hand loosened.

"Clara, what... what do you mean?" Her voice quivered; a strange flush crept across her pale cheeks.

I curled my lips. "You keep saying you trust me. I said I didn't know, I didn't see anything, yet you still question me with everyone else. Is that trust?"

"What about what you and Rachel Morgan did behind my back? Do you think I don't know?"

"I'm only the villain that shows how good you are. Without someone like me, who would prove you're such pure white lotuses?"

Emily's chest heaved; my words stunned her. "You—do you truly think that of us?"

Linda Harris flung herself into the coffin, sobbing: "My dear! This is the friend you kept! A full accomplice!"

"You knew her family was poor, yet you spent your money on her exercise books and snacks, nursed her when she was ill. And this is how she looks at you!"

Someone rushed forward, shouting, "She's hiding the murderer!"

They grabbed the benches and began to strike me. "If she doesn't tell us, we'll beat it out of her!"

I found it absurd.

Were they after justice or revenge?

Then someone in the crowd screamed, and Linda Harris fainted from the fury.

People scrambled to carry her away, and the commotion let me slip free.

For the next two days, I stayed locked inside.

The police came to question me, but nothing came of it.

No one could make me speak.

There was no proof I'd seen the killer. I believed they couldn't touch me if I refused to confess.

But on Rachel's funeral day, grief swallowed Linda Harris—she leapt into the lake and died.

The villagers exploded in anger, and Samuel Morgan led them to my house.

They hurled stones, flung eggs, and splashed me with manure.

"You beast! You sheltered the murderer! Not only did you kill our Rachel, but you killed my wife!"

Their rage boiled over:

"You're worse than pigs and dogs! You bastard, you deserve to have no parents!"

"How can someone so cold live among us? Such a kind child was murdered because she had a friend like you!"

"Why weren't you the one violated? If you die, I'll let my dog chew your bones!"

They raised their fists to kill me. My frail grandmother stood in their way, screaming at the top of her lungs:

"Clara, run!"

I fought through the pain and fled, then suddenly stopped dead in my tracks.

A shadow fell across the road ahead — the figure I'd seen that night stood at the edge of the lane, motionless, as if waiting. My breath froze. I felt the world narrow to that shape; every insult, every stone, every loss condensing into one heartbeat of dread. Momentarily, my legs completely refused to move; fear and recognition locked me there.