Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Three or four days later, I was on my way home from work. As usual, I kicked the door shut behind me—only to have a pair of hands suddenly hold it open. Someone grabbed me from behind, wrapping their arms around my waist and covering my mouth. They were so strong I couldn't break free.

Just as my mind began to race, imagining a home invasion, the person whispered in my ear, "Don't make a sound. Give me a minute to explain—there's no time. Listen: I love you. I couldn't stand how Ethan Bennett treated you, so I killed him. That night, you saw me. I threatened you, told you not to tell anyone, and made you agree to be with me. You said you would only help me prove your innocence if I did. But after it was done, you went back on your word and tried to report me. We got into a fight. When they ask, that's what you tell them!"

I realized it was Tyler Hayes speaking. Was he trying to take the blame for me?

Tyler Hayes was out of breath, as if he had run all the way here. His voice was trembling, and he spoke in a rush. "I only have one request: don't come to the trial. I don't want you to see me like this. I love you—I've always loved you. It's a shame I never got to tell you. Now I can only prove it with my actions."

Every word Tyler Hayes said hit me like a hammer, weighing on my chest and making it hard to breathe.

I shook my head, turning around to meet his bloodshot eyes. Before I could say a word, Tyler Hayes' breath brushed against my face. I felt his lips press against mine in a passionate kiss. But the kiss barely lasted half a minute before it was interrupted by the sound of footsteps.

Tyler Hayes pushed me away suddenly, tearing at my clothes. He pinned me to the floor, pulling a fruit knife out of his pocket and holding it to me. I recognized it immediately—it was the same knife I had used to kill Ethan Bennett.

Tears fell from his eyes onto my body, his gaze filled with reluctance and tenderness. His hand holding the knife froze in mid-air. I looked at him through my tears and said, "Do you know what you're doing?"

Tyler Hayes nodded, then sliced the knife across my shoulder. I looked at his haggard, unkempt face, sobbing as I said, "From now on... your parents will be my parents." Tyler Hayes raised the knife again—but just then, a group of police officers burst through the door, pulling him off me and handcuffing him.

While I was in the hospital getting my shoulder bandaged, I heard from a nurse that Tyler Hayes had found Clara Winslow, beaten her up, and recorded a video of her apologizing to clear my name, which he then posted online.

The full truth finally came to light: Clara Winslow had colluded with Ethan Bennett to write that post. She had forced Ethan Bennett to add all those made-up, malicious details, and the photos had been photoshopped. She had even hired trolls to boost the video's popularity.

This time, I was completely exonerated. Online, people were now flooding Clara Winslow with insults—but I felt no joy at all.

I asked around and found out Clara Winslow was also in this hospital, in the intensive care unit. She had been admitted the day before and was still unconscious, with countless tubes inserted into her body and her head wrapped in thick bandages.

I snuck a look at her. Seeing Clara Winslow lying on the hospital bed, her face pale as a ghost, a heavy weight lifted from my chest. Evil deserves evil—and Clara Winslow had finally gotten what she deserved.

The police came to take my statement. I recited the story Tyler Hayes had told me word for word, successfully getting through their questioning.

With witnesses and evidence—including the surveillance footage where I had unconsciously mimicked Tyler Hayes' posture to disguise myself as a man—there was now "irrefutable proof" that Tyler Hayes was guilty.

I knew I would have to live with guilt over Tyler Hayes for the rest of my life. Yet, deep down, I couldn't help but feel relieved that it was all over.

But later, the female police officer who had questioned me after Ethan Bennett's death came to see me alone. I recognized her immediately.

She pulled me into an empty corridor, lit a cigarette skillfully, took a drag, and said, "Do you think there might be someone else who killed Ethan Bennett?"

"That night, I saw Tyler Hayes kill him. He threatened me..."

The officer cut me off. "I've already heard that story. Repeating it from memory isn't very convincing. We looked into Ethan Bennett's background—his only enemy was his ex-girlfriend, who he had just broken up with. And the day Ethan Bennett died, when we came to your place to ask about what happened, your expression was clearly suspicious."

I shot back, "You think I killed Ethan Bennett? Haven't you seen the surveillance video?"

"Don't get me wrong—I'm just speculating. If I were the ex-girlfriend who had been abandoned, slandered, and condemned by everyone, I would make the person who hurt me pay. And if I could kill them with my own hands, even better. If I were the suspect, I would put insoles in my shoes, wear a tall hat to make myself look taller, and then—filled with anger—stab them right in the chest."

I sighed and said, "Using tools to disguise your height—that's a clever idea. Only someone as professional as you could think of that."

The female officer turned to look at me, her gaze sharp as if she were trying to see through my eyes and into my soul—to uncover the truth.

I didn't look away, meeting her eyes steadily. I knew this was a battle of wills. People in her line of work were better at psychological warfare than professional psychologists. All I could do was deceive even myself, to keep lying until the end.

Finally, after a long moment, she looked away and said slowly, "Do you know what Tyler Hayes is facing? He's in the prime of his life. If he goes to jail now, he'll lose everything—at least the most important years of his life. He deserves a better future."

Her words held an unspoken message: she wanted me to turn myself in so Tyler Hayes could get a lighter sentence. That was her idea of a "better future." I looked toward the other end of the corridor, as if speaking to myself, "That's Tyler Hayes' choice..."

She let out a sigh, knowing she wouldn't get anything more out of me. She flicked the ash off her cigarette and walked away. Before turning the corner, she gave me a meaningful look—one that left me to ponder its meaning alone.