One moment, Layla was waiting for strawberry ice cream, her curls dripping with seawater. The next, she was gone. Murdered. Two years later, her mother still sits in Layla’s room, drowning in grief and unanswered questions.
The police searched but found nothing. Her marriage is splintering. Her son Gale, once bright and carefree, has grown secretive and distant. He stares into the shadows as if watching something she cannot see.
Then one morning, over buttered toast, Gale whispers the words that change everything: I know who killed Layla. When she presses him, his answer chills her to the bone. She told me.
If Gale is right, the ghost of Layla has returned. And she is ready to expose the truth.
