My Best Friend Died and I Protected the Killer

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.