The Final Call

Three years ago, my daughter fell from the twentieth floor. She died instantly.

My husband, Ethan, held her body for three days and nights, refusing to sleep. Chelsea, her godmother and my best friend, cried until she collapsed.

I refused to believe my daughter, Lily, would go to the rooftop alone. I dedicated my life to uncovering the truth. But no matter how hard I looked, the security footage and every shred of evidence pointed to one conclusion: she had jumped.

Until today, the anniversary of her death. I received a call from an unknown number.