Chapter 8: Sins Remembered

Back then—

Derek’s words yanked me back fifteen years.

He was right. I really was good to Rachel. The kind of good you hope erases all the bad.

To be precise, I was her savior.

That’s why, all these years, I’ve never felt guilty. Not really.

I saved her—her life belonged to me.

I killed her—so it’s even. That’s what I told myself.

It was winter break, sophomore year. I’d set up a basketball game on the old cracked courts behind the school.

Halfway through, someone screamed by the pond:

"Somebody fell in! Somebody fell in the lake!"

When I saw it was Rachel and a little girl flailing in the icy water, I dove right in, not even thinking, clothes and all.

Someone yelled that diving in after sweating was dangerous, but adrenaline drowned out common sense.

The lake water was freezing. Shards of ice bit my skin as I hauled both girls out, coughing and shaking.

I ended up with pneumonia, two weeks in the hospital, shivering through fevers and IV drips.

Derek and Rachel visited every day, lugging homework, sneaking in snacks. Even Rachel’s parents offered to pay the bills, but mine refused: "They’re classmates—it’s just what you do."

On the day I was discharged, she and Derek brought balloons, awkward but sweet.

We got closer. She tutored me, pelted me with erasers when I nodded off, even volunteered to be my deskmate. I thought we were friends—maybe more, in some innocent way.

But when I begged her not to tell the teacher—just this once, for saving her life—

She refused. Cold as ice.

"I’ll give you three days to confess, Caleb. Turn back before it’s too late."

Later, on the rooftop, I tried the same trick—showed her my scars, begged for sympathy.

All I got was a cold reply:

"Caleb, I’m helping you. The teacher already started a full investigation. If you confess first, maybe you’ll get leniency. I can testify you didn’t succeed in cheating, so the teacher won’t expel you."

But she was wrong. The teacher dropped the investigation—Rachel’s suicide overshadowed everything.

The first few nights after she died, I couldn’t sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw her stubborn, unforgiving face.

Jason tried to comfort me:

"Think about it—if you hadn’t saved her, she’d have died long ago. She should thank you for letting her live an extra year. You did nothing wrong."

Yeah.

I risked my life for her, and she couldn’t help me just once?

A cold-blooded person like that deserved what she got. That’s what I told myself, night after night.