“No,” I muttered, shaking my head over and over. “She’s not dead. She can’t be. They’ll give her back. They’ll—”
My phone rang, jolting me. Unknown number. I answered immediately, voice ragged. “Hello? Sienna? Is she alive?”
The voice on the other end was calm. Too calm. “Is this Mr. Aldrin Jones?”
“Yes!” I snapped. “Why are you calling me?”
“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.
