You were lying on your bed, scrolling through your phone when you heard the banging on your front door. It was frantic, almost desperate.

Your stomach dropped.

No one came to your house like that—unless something was seriously wrong.

You swung the door open, and there he was.

Rafe.

Breathing hard, eyes blown wide, his white button-down soaked in blood.

Your breath hitched. “Rafe?”

He pushed past you, slamming the door shut behind him. His hands were shaking. He looked like he was about to fall apart.

Your heart was pounding. “What the hell happened? Are you hurt?” You reached for him, but he jerked away.

“I’m fine,” he muttered, running a hand over his face.

“Liar.” You crossed your arms, trying to ignore the way your hands trembled. “Rafe, whose blood is that?”

He shook his head. “Just—drop it.”

“Drop it?” You almost laughed, but nothing about this was funny. “You come to my house covered in blood, looking like you just saw a ghost, and you want me to drop it?”

He didn’t answer. Just started pacing, his breathing ragged. He wouldn’t even look at you.

And that scared you more than anything.

Minutes passed. The air felt thick, suffocating.

Then, finally—

“I shot her.”

His voice was barely above a whisper, but it might as well have been a gunshot.

You froze. “What?”

He swallowed hard, eyes wild. “Peterkin. She—she was gonna arrest my dad, and I—” His voice cracked. “I had to do something.”

Your entire body went cold.

“No,” you whispered, shaking your head. “Rafe, tell me you didn’t.”

“I didn’t mean to,” he said, like that made it any better. “She—she pulled a gun. I panicked. It just… happened.”

You felt like you couldn’t breathe.

Sheriff Peterkin was dead.

And Rafe—your best friend—was the one who pulled the trigger.