Chapter 1: The First Test

The morning of the SATs in 1990, I stumbled into the woods behind Willow Creek High and found Rachel Lewis fighting for her life. The buzz of mosquitoes filled the air, and the smell of wet earth clung to my sneakers. Even now, Rachel’s ragged cry for help echoes in my head, her hands trembling as she clung to my shoelaces, dirt streaked down her knees. She looked so small, lost between the trees and the gravel parking lot, desperate and scared out of her mind.

I tried to chase the guy who attacked her, but he got away. When Rachel was stopped outside the test center, unable to get in, all her fear turned on me.

Back then, the SAT wasn’t just a test—it was a one-way ticket out. Kids who didn’t pass ended up fixing tractors or working the counter at the feed store. The staff at the county high school just shook their heads—no ticket, no entry. Rachel glared at me, tears turning to fury, like I’d made this happen. Other kids whispered, rumors already spinning out of control.

The day my acceptance letter arrived, she came to my door with the police. The siren’s echo bounced off our porch’s chipped paint, my grandma peering through the torn screen. Rachel’s voice was ice—she wouldn’t even look at me, just pointed stiff as a flagpole, her words louder than the uniforms beside her.

"It was him. On the day of the SATs, he assaulted me and stole my documents."

She said it with steel in her voice, eyes shining with crocodile tears. The officers looked at me like I was already guilty, their hands too close to their belts.

"He was jealous of my grades, made me miss the test on purpose, and wanted to ruin me."

Her words landed like stones, heavy and final. I felt every neighbor’s stare like a brand. The world I’d known—the porch swings, the Sunday picnics, Grandma’s humming in the kitchen—shrank to a single, suffocating point.

During the investigation, my college yanked my admission. I became the county’s most infamous creep, hated by everyone.

It was like living in a nightmare. The principal wouldn’t meet my eyes, the guidance counselor handed me a box of my things. Kids crossed the street to avoid me. My future disappeared with each rejection letter, every envelope colder than the last.

In the end, it was Grandma—clutching a plea written in her own blood—who crawled from the busy farmer’s market to the county office to beg for justice for me.

I can still see her in that faded house dress, knees scraped raw, pushing through the Saturday crowd, stubborn as ever. She pounded on the county office door until someone finally listened. Her voice—thin, shaking, but fierce—echoed down the marble hallway.

But the night before I was released, a fire broke out at home. With her bad legs, Grandma couldn’t escape.

It happened fast—a neighbor pounding on the window, smoke pouring in. The volunteer fire department came with their old siren wailing, but by the time they got water on the flames, it was too late. The house was just charred timber, the porch swing twisted and blackened. Grandma’s Bible was the only thing that survived.

In an instant, I lost both my future and my home.

I can still smell the wet soot, hear the neighbor kids daring each other to poke through the ruins, their voices shrill in the Ohio dusk.

More than ten years later, on the day I planned to end my life, it was one of those gray days where the sky presses low and even the birds seem to have given up. My bones ached as I walked the old roads, every step weighed down by memories. I’d picked the spot next to Grandma’s grave, wanting to be close, to let the dirt swallow up my regrets with me.

I accidentally discovered that the fire had been set by Rachel and her family.

The truth tumbled out at a drunken graveside, slurred confessions mixing with the smell of whiskey and cheap beer. The final piece of my ruined life clicked into place. A cold, clear rage settled in my chest.

Red-eyed, I died together with her—now married to the richest guy’s son in town—and her whole family.

It wasn’t a blur. I remember the smell of gasoline, the gleam of gold on her wrists, the echo of her laughter turning to terror. It ended fast and ugly, but the rage inside me burned everything else away.

When I opened my eyes again, I was back on the morning of the SATs in 1990. My sheets scratchy, the box fan rattling in the window, and Grandma’s cough echoing from the kitchen. Was I dreaming, or had the world really rewound?

Not far away, I heard Rachel’s desperate cries for help. Her voice—high, panicked—sliced through the morning air. It was just like before, as if the universe was daring me to step in again.

This time, I turned my back on her screams. And for the first time, I wondered if that made me the villain.