The moment when you realize the certainty of your death is a strange one. Chelsea Hale was experiencing just this moment as she fell toward a crowded Manhattan street some 500 feet below her. She wasn’t sure how much the impact would hurt or if she’d even feel it but she was certain this was not the kind of fall you survive.
Was she feeling terrified? Of course. But more than that, the feeling washing over Chelsea in her final moments alive was one of bitterness. It wasn’t fair that she had to die at the age of 28. It wasn’t fair that her parents would outlive her. And it especially wasn’t fair that they would assume she’d taken the coward’s way out by committing suicide.
It wasn’t fair but time was up. The pavement was flying toward her now and she couldn’t bare to look. She closed her eyes. The sounds of the city—the cars, the people, the subway—were getting closer and closer and closer.
And then it was over.
It was the end of Chelsea Hale’s story – but it’s the beginning of this one. This is the story Chelsea would have told you herself if only life were fair. This is the story of her murder.