Chapter 2: The Accusation

After Derek’s words, laughter died like a blown fuse. The clang of a dropped fork echoed in the hush, and even the background murmur faded, as if the whole bar was tuned in.

A deathly silence settled, every creak of the wooden floor and every drip from the rusty AC unit suddenly magnified.

Then Tyler, always the joker, broke the tension. Someone fidgeted with their phone, another knocked over a cup, and then Tyler snorted, laughing too loud:

"Come on, Derek, you must’ve had too much cheap whiskey. Are you for real right now?"

"Yeah, everyone knows Rachel’s death was ruled a suicide. Even the cops closed the case, man."

"Hard to believe it’s been almost fifteen years since she died. Time really flies, doesn’t it?"

Stories began to drift back to safer topics—football games, prom disasters, that time Mrs. Ward tripped over the marching band tuba.

But Derek wouldn’t let it go. Derek’s hand smacked the table, rattling the half-empty beer bottles and making the ketchup packets jump. He raised his voice, bourbon breath slicing through the haze:

"I’m not making this up! I really saw someone push her off the roof!"

"And not just that—"

He paused, taking a deep, rattling breath. He hunched over, shoulders trembling, eyes rimmed red as he continued, voice trembling:

"The person who pushed her is sitting right here—one of you."

His gaze, sharp and bloodshot, swept across us, lingering just long enough to set my nerves on fire.

My heart hammered so loud I thought someone might hear. He didn’t look like a drunk ranting. He looked haunted.

But on the day it happened, Jason and I had locked Derek in the boys’ bathroom ourselves. We jammed a mop under the knob, just like in every cheesy teen movie growing up.

Could he have escaped without us knowing? No way. We’d double-checked, waited until we heard him pounding, just to be sure.

Derek and Rachel had been childhood friends—the kind who grew up at church barbecues and Little League games, their parents swapping casseroles and stories at block parties. After Rachel died, Derek fell apart. His grades tanked, he barely scraped into Midwest State—a nowhere college.

He married a family friend’s daughter, like something out of a local script. Now, at work, he’s even below me on the ladder.

Rachel’s death knocked the wind out of him. Changed everything.

After Rachel’s mom nearly overdosed from grief—spending months in rehab—if Derek had really seen what happened, he would’ve gone to the police. There’s no way he’d wait until now, in a neon-lit bar, to say anything.

He must be lying, or losing it.

Relief loosened my chest, and I let out a quiet sigh.

I straightened my back, rolling my shoulders like Dad taught me before interviews, just as Derek’s desperate eyes found mine. He looked like a man caught in a riptide, searching for a lifeguard.

"Caleb, do you believe me?"

Everyone knows: when people are desperate, they reach for the closest hand.

After college, Derek and I ended up at the same company—fate, or the universe with a sick sense of humor. Out of everyone, he’s always been closest to me.

But now, I couldn’t tell if he wanted comfort—or a confession.

I forced a smile—fake as hell—and was about to answer when a confused woman’s voice sliced through the tension behind me:

"If you saw it back then, why didn’t you tell the police?"