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“This is the police,” the officer replied. “We’re calling to inform you that Mrs. Amara Jones has been found dead. Her car collided with a twelve-wheeler truck earlier this evening. I’m… I’m sorry.”
The phone slipped from my grip, crashing to the floor.
Amara.
Dead.
Sienna. Gone.
The urn felt like fire in my hands, yet I couldn’t drop it. My breath came in broken sobs, rage and denial warring inside me.
No. This couldn’t be happening. Not to me.
Not like this.
I do not look back after the hotel vanishes behind the bend of the coastal road. The Gulf Shores night slides past the …
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