Two hours after my daughter Lily’s funeral, I was still in my black dress when my phone rang. It was our family doctor, his voice unsteady.
“Come to my office immediately,” he said. “And don’t tell anyone.”
The urgency cut through my grief. When I arrived, the clinic was dark except for his office light. Inside, he wasn’t alone. A woman in a gray suit stood beside him—an FBI agent.
They told me the truth no one else had.
Lily’s autopsy didn’t match the official report. The bruises on her body weren’t from a car accident. They showed restraint. Her brakes had been tampered with.
My daughter hadn’t died by accident.
Then came the revelation that shattered me further: Lily had been quietly monitored for years as part of a protection program. My late husband had once witnessed a crime tied to an international trafficking network, putting our family at risk. Lily refused protective custody months before her death—she didn’t want to live in fear.
The agent said they believed someone close to me might be involved.
Then she slid a document across the desk.
My sister’s name.
I wanted to deny it—but memories flooded in: unexplained money, sudden trips, things I’d ignored while focused on Lily.
Before leaving, the agent handed me a USB drive. Lily had recorded something the day before she died.
As they led me out through a back exit, my grief turned into resolve. Someone had taken my daughter. Someone thought the truth would stay buried.
They were wrong.
I would find out who did this—no matter who it was.