Kayla can"t be dead! Nausea rises in my throat with the mental image of Kayla falling into the cold ravine. I cup my mouth and force the acidity down with irrepressible tears. As I cower in the police cruiser"s back seat, the killer"s callous voice resonates in my ear. “Ms. Powell, I know who you are and where you live.” Kayla"s senseless murder has rendered me angry, fearful, and inconsolable. Yesterday when I exited her car, I had a foreboding sense that would be the last time I"d see her again, confirmed by the ambulance ahead.
Kayla can"t be dead!“Ms. Powell, I know who you are and where you live.”The cruiser sits in the exact spot I froze in shock, turned and sped uphill away from Kayla and the gun-wielding man. The police inspecting the crime scene seems surreal. Only moments ago, I
