One moment my beautiful daughter, her face flushed from the sun, her curls still wet from splashing in the ocean, was waiting in line for a strawberry ice cream, the next she was gone. It's been two years since Layla was murdered. The police have searched tirelessly for her killer, but they've found nothing – it's like whoever did it vanished into thin air. My once-perfect marriage is falling apart, we can hardly look at each other anymore. Our ten-year-old son Gale is struggling. Then one day, as I butter his toast for breakfast, my son tells me something that stops me in my tracks. "I know who killed Layla.” I can barely get the words out to ask how. Looking at me with his serious little boy expression, he puts a hand on my arm. “She told me.”