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?"
