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.

Outside, Emily stood motionless, holding her large wolfhound on a leash.

Rusty saw me and erupted into furious barking, digging its paws into the ground like it was about to spring.

My scalp prickled, and I stepped back, my spine pressed to the door.

I’d been bitten by a dog as a child, so I’d always feared Emily’s wolfhound.

In the past, when I waited for Emily to leave for school, she would always shoo the dog aside.

But now she held Rusty opposite me, her expression stunned.

"Clara!" Her face was dark, her voice cold and flat.

"I'll give you one last chance."

"Who dragged Rachel into the cornfield?"

I stared at her icy face and pressed my lips together. "Hurry up!" she snapped.

"I've told you so many times, I don't know!" I shouted, eyes shut.

A second later, a bark rang out, and the chain clattered free.

Rusty lunged, its jaws clamping into my shoulder, ripping flesh with terrifying force. Pain flared so hot I screamed.

I thrashed, but Rusty held fast, its teeth gnawing bone like metal, tearing away thick strips of skin.

"Emily, are you trying to force a confession?" I cried.

Emily's mother sprang forward, trying to yank the dog free, but Emily shoved her away. "Don't help her!" Emily screamed, her eyes rimmed red, venom in her stare.

"She sheltered the murderer. She deserves to die!"

Her mother tried to cover Emily's mouth, but Emily pushed her off, tears streaking down her face as she broke into hysterical sobs:

"She killed Rachel! She doesn't deserve to be our friend!"

"I want her to pay for Rachel's life!"

Rusty still bit into me; the agony made me howl.

I writhed on the dirt like a ragdoll being mauled. Just when I thought I'd be torn apart, my grandmother burst forward, shrieking, and tried to save me, but several villagers roughly held her back.

"Clara! My granddaughter!" Grandma wailed. "Pull the dog away! It's going to kill her!"

Someone spat, "Better if it died!"

"That heartless creature deserves to be torn apart!"

Grandma nearly sank to her knees, begging between sobs:

"Emily! Pull the dog away! You three grew up together; you were inseparable. Why are you doing this to my Clara?"

"Clara says she doesn't know. She didn't lie. Why don't you believe her?"

Emily's eyes filled. "I believe her, but what about Rachel?"

"Does Rachel know her best friend sheltered the murderer after her death?"

Her gaze was bloodshot and hard. "Clara clearly saw the killer, but she denied it. Why is she lying? Why is she shielding him?"

"Rachel and I treated her as a friend, but she thinks we're using her as a tool! What's the point of a friendship like that?"

Watching her pleas fail, Grandma stamped her feet in despair.

She felt helpless, begging the crowd to save me.

But everyone stood and watched.

The air smelled of wet earth and fear; villagers' faces twisted with triumph and accusation. Someone laughed cruelly, and another spat on the ground. The dog's breath was hot and rank; blood soaked my shirt and dripped into the dirt, mixing with village dust. I tasted metal and the sickening cruelty of their glee.

I watched myself being beaten to a bloody pulp, pain shredding through me.

Grandma’s face was streaked with tears; she trembled and collapsed onto the ground.

She kowtowed to the crowd again and again, her silver hair loose, her forehead reddened.

"Please… spare my granddaughter!"

"Our Clara isn't a bad girl. She didn't lie! Don't do this to her!"

Pinned to the ground, I watched Grandma bend and kneel before everyone, kowtow after kowtow.

Grandma was old, but she had never bowed or lowered her head to anyone. Now, for my sake, she accepted humiliation and begged for me.

At that moment, my heart tore.

I looked at Emily standing with arms folded, watching with a cold gaze.

Hatred rose in me like a tide.

"Grandma, don't kneel!"

I roared, a raw, piercing sound.

"Don't you want to know who the murderer is?"

"I'll tell you!"