The night air in Covelo, California hung thick with the kind of silence that makes your skin prickle—the sort of quiet that comes right before everything falls apart.
It was just after midnight on February 8, 2018, when the black Mercedes sedan pulled up outside the house on Airport Road. Inside, Khadijah Britton was trying to build a new life, piece by fragile piece, in the safety of a friend’s home. She was twenty-three years old, a young Native American woman from the Round Valley Indian Tribes, and she had finally done what so many women struggle to do: she had left.
Just nine days earlier, she had walked into the Mendocino County Sheriff’s Office and told them something that would chill anyone to the bone. Her boyfriend of three years, Negie Fallis IV, had tried to kill her with a hammer.
Not threatened. Not argued. Tried to kill her.
She had the bruises to prove it. She had the terror in her eyes to prove it. And for once, she had done everything right—she reported it, she left him, she found somewhere safe to stay.
But on that cold February night, safety became an illusion.
When Negie Fallis stepped out of that Mercedes with a derringer pistol in his hand and demanded to see Khadijah, the people inside the house knew exactly what kind of danger had just arrived at their door. They watched as Khadijah stepped outside, maybe hoping she could talk him down, maybe thinking she could reason with a man who had once swung a hammer at her head.
They watched as the conversation turned into a fight.
They watched as he forced her—at gunpoint—into the back of his car.
And then they watched him drive away into the darkness, taking Khadijah Britton with him.
That was seven years ago.
Khadijah Britton has never been seen or heard from since.
And Negie Fallis? He’s never been charged with her disappearance.
A Girl Who Lit Up the Court
Before she became a name on missing person posters, before the FBI offered a reward for information about her disappearance, Khadijah Rose Britton was a daughter, a friend, a basketball star who ran up and down the courts at Round Valley High School with the kind of fire that made people stop and watch.
Born on April 22, 1994, to Connie Hostler and Jerry Britton Jr., Khadijah grew up as a proud member of the Wailaki tribe, one of several indigenous groups that make up the Round Valley Indian Tribes in Mendocino County, California. The reservation, tucked into the remote northern part of the state, was home—a place where everyone knew everyone, where family ties ran deep, and where Khadijah’s athletic talent made her something of a local celebrity.
She was five feet eight inches tall, strong and athletic, with brown hair and brown eyes that seemed to hold both determination and kindness. On her right arm, she wore a tattoo that simply read “Britton”—her family name, a reminder of where she came from. On her other arm, in bold letters, she had tattooed “Wylaki,” an alternate spelling of Wailaki, her tribal identity. These weren’t just decorations; they were declarations of who she was, etched permanently into her skin.
In 2012, Khadijah graduated from Round Valley High School with a respectable 3.17 GPA. Her family hoped she would go to college, continue her education, maybe use that athletic prowess to earn a scholarship. But Khadijah had other plans, or perhaps life had other plans for her. Despite her family’s encouragement, she didn’t enroll in college.
Instead, she stayed in Covelo, a tiny town of fewer than 1,300 people, where opportunities were scarce and the future often felt like it had already been written. It was the kind of place where young people either left to find their fortunes elsewhere, or they stayed and tried to carve out a life from limited options.
Khadijah stayed.
And somewhere along the way, she met Negie Fallis IV.
The Man Who Should Have Been a Warning
Negie Fallis IV was not a young man when he entered Khadijah’s life. He was significantly older, a father of four children ranging in age from seven months to eight years old. He was also Native American, also from the Covelo area, and also someone who carried a reputation that should have sent Khadijah running in the opposite direction.
He had a history.
Not just rumors. Not just whispers. An actual documented history of violence against women.
Court records would later reveal that Negie Fallis had previous domestic violence charges—plural—involving other women. This was not a man who had made one mistake in a moment of anger. This was a pattern, a trail of broken relationships and broken women who had learned the hard way what he was capable of.
But when you’re young, when you’re isolated in a small town, when someone pays attention to you in a place where attention feels like love, sometimes you don’t see the warning signs until it’s too late. Sometimes you think you’ll be different, that your love will change him, that the violence that touched other women’s lives will somehow skip over yours.
Khadijah’s family watched as she fell into a relationship with Negie Fallis. They watched, and they worried, because they could see what she couldn’t—or wouldn’t—see. They described a relationship marked by abuse, a three-year cycle of violence that slowly tightened around Khadijah like a noose.
For three years, she stayed.
For three years, whatever happened behind closed doors stayed behind closed doors, the way it so often does in cases of domestic violence. Maybe she tried to leave before. Maybe she thought about it. Maybe she made excuses, told herself it would get better, believed his apologies.
But on January 30, 2018, something happened that was so terrible, so violent, that Khadijah finally called for help.
The Hammer
Imagine the moment when you realize the person you’ve been sharing your life with is actively trying to end it.
On January 30, 2018, authorities responded to a domestic violence call at Negie Fallis’s home in Covelo. When they arrived, they found Khadijah Britton, and she told them a story that still sends chills down the spine of anyone who hears it.
Negie Fallis had tried to kill her with a hammer.
Not in a fit of rage where he grabbed the nearest object. Not in a moment of blind fury that passed as quickly as it came. He tried to kill her. With a hammer. A tool meant for building, for creating, twisted into a weapon of intimate violence.
The details of that attack have never been fully disclosed to the public, and perhaps that’s for the best. Some horrors don’t need to be spelled out to be understood. What matters is that Khadijah survived. What matters is that she was brave enough to report it. What matters is that she finally, finally walked away.
She broke up with Negie Fallis on the spot. She spoke to police. She spoke to domestic violence counselors. She did everything that advocates tell survivors to do—she reported the abuse, she left the relationship, she sought safety.
She moved out of his home and went to stay with a friend at a residence on Airport Road in Covelo. It was a temporary solution, a safe haven while she figured out her next steps. She was building a plan. She was building a future that didn’t include Negie Fallis.
For eight days, it seemed like she might actually make it.
For eight days, she must have started to breathe a little easier, started to imagine a life where she didn’t have to look over her shoulder, started to believe that the worst was behind her.
But the most dangerous time for a victim of domestic violence is not when they’re in the relationship.
It’s when they leave.
Midnight on Airport Road
The house where Khadijah was staying sat in the 23000 block of Airport Road in west Covelo, a rural stretch of California where houses are separated by distance and darkness. It was the kind of place where you could hear a car coming from far away, where headlights cutting through the night felt like an intrusion.
Just after midnight on February 8, 2018—some sources say it was still February 7, bleeding into the early morning hours of the 8th—those headlights appeared.
A black Mercedes sedan.
Inside the house, whoever was with Khadijah that night must have felt their stomachs drop when they realized who had arrived. Because this wasn’t a random visitor. This wasn’t someone who happened to be in the neighborhood.
This was Negie Fallis, and he had come for Khadijah.
When he stepped out of that Mercedes, he was carrying a gun—a small derringer pistol, the kind of weapon that’s easy to conceal but devastatingly effective at close range. He didn’t hide it. He didn’t pretend this was a friendly visit. He walked up to that house armed and demanding to speak with Khadijah outside.
What went through Khadijah’s mind in that moment? Did she think she could talk him down? Did she hope that stepping outside would keep the violence away from the people who had offered her shelter? Did she believe, even then, that she could somehow manage the situation, the way victims of abuse so often learn to manage their abusers?
She went outside.
And what happened next was witnessed by people inside that house—people who would later tell police exactly what they saw.
They saw a physical altercation. They saw Khadijah and Negie Fallis fighting. And then they saw something that would haunt them for years to come.
They saw Negie Fallis force Khadijah Britton, at gunpoint, into the back of his black Mercedes.
They saw her disappear into that car.
They saw him drive away.
And that was the last time anyone saw Khadijah Britton.
The Silence That Followed
For two days, there was nothing.
No phone calls. No text messages. No sign of Khadijah.
In the age of constant connection, when most of us are tethered to our phones like lifelines, two days of silence from a young woman who had just been forcibly taken at gunpoint should have set off every alarm bell imaginable.
On February 10, 2018, Khadijah’s family finally filed a missing person report with the Mendocino County Sheriff’s Office. They knew something was terribly wrong. They knew that Khadijah wouldn’t just disappear without a word. They knew, with the kind of cold certainty that settles in your bones, that their daughter was in danger.
The authorities had witnesses. They had people who had seen Khadijah forced into Negie Fallis’s car at gunpoint. They had a clear suspect, a recent history of domestic violence, and an attempted murder with a hammer just nine days earlier.
Nine days.
Nine days between a man trying to kill a woman with a hammer and that same man showing up at her safe house with a gun.
Nine days between Khadijah reporting the abuse and Khadijah disappearing.
The clock was ticking, and everyone knew that in cases like this, time is the most precious resource you have. The first forty-eight hours are critical. After that, the chances of finding someone alive begin to plummet.
But Khadijah had already been gone for more than forty-eight hours by the time the missing person report was filed.
On February 19, 2018—eleven days after Khadijah vanished—authorities finally arrested Negie Fallis IV. He was thirty-seven years old, fourteen years older than the young woman he had dated for three years.
The initial charges seemed promising. They arrested him for the hammer attack, the domestic violence incident from January 30. But authorities also filed additional charges: attempted murder, kidnapping, and assault with a deadly weapon.
Attempted murder. Kidnapping. Assault with a deadly weapon.
Those are serious charges—the kind of charges that carry decades in prison, the kind of charges that suggest prosecutors believed they had a case.
Khadijah’s family must have felt a flicker of hope. Finally, justice. Finally, someone was being held accountable. Finally, maybe they would get answers about where Khadijah was.
But then something happened that shattered that hope into a million pieces.
The charges were dropped.
Not all of them—Negie Fallis still faced consequences for the domestic violence incident. But the big ones, the ones that mattered most, the ones related to Khadijah’s disappearance?
Attempted murder: dropped.
Kidnapping: dropped.
Assault with a deadly weapon: dropped.
The reason given was devastating in its simplicity: lack of evidence.
Lack of Evidence
How do you lack evidence when you have eyewitnesses who saw a woman being forced into a car at gunpoint?
How do you lack evidence when the suspect has a documented history of domestic violence, not just with Khadijah, but with other women?
How do you lack evidence when, just nine days before she disappeared, that same man tried to kill her with a hammer?
These are the questions that have haunted Khadijah Britton’s family for seven years. These are the questions that keep them awake at night, that turn their grief into a burning, unanswerable rage.
The legal system has its standards, its burden of proof, its requirements for what constitutes admissible evidence. Without a body, without forensic evidence, without a confession, prosecutors face an uphill battle in cases like this. They call them “no-body homicides,” and they’re notoriously difficult to prosecute.
But that doesn’t make it any easier to swallow.
Negie Fallis remained in custody for the domestic violence charges related to the hammer attack. He was eventually convicted and sentenced for those offenses. But the charges that really mattered—the ones connected to Khadijah’s disappearance—evaporated like morning fog.
He was never charged with kidnapping Khadijah Britton.
He was never charged with murdering Khadijah Britton.
To this day, seven years later, he has never been charged in connection with her disappearance.
When the FBI Gets Involved
In March 2018, barely a month after Khadijah vanished, the Federal Bureau of Investigation stepped into the case. When the FBI gets involved in a local missing person case, it usually means one of two things: either the disappearance crosses state lines, or it involves special circumstances that require federal resources.
In Khadijah’s case, it was likely the latter. As a member of the Round Valley Indian Tribes, Khadijah’s disappearance fell into a category of cases that have been tragically neglected for decades: Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women and Girls, often abbreviated as MMIW.
The statistics are staggering and heartbreaking. In 2016 alone, the National Crime Information Center reported 5,712 missing Indigenous women and girls in the United States. Indigenous women face murder rates that are, in some counties, over ten times the national average. They are ten times more likely to be murdered than other demographics. Eighty-four percent of Indigenous women living on reservations experience some form of violence in their lifetimes.
California, home to the largest Native American population in the country with more than 160 tribes, ranks fifth nationally for cases of missing and murdered Indigenous people. The Sovereign Bodies Institute, which has been tracking these cases since 2015, estimates an average of fourteen known cases per year in California alone. Based on that average, they estimate at least 1,700 cases since 1900—and that number is likely exponentially higher due to misreporting and misclassification of Native Americans in official records.
Khadijah Britton became one more statistic in a crisis that has been described by California tribal leaders as an epidemic, an emergency, and a catastrophe.
The FBI’s involvement brought federal resources to the search. It brought attention to a case that might have otherwise faded into obscurity in a small town like Covelo. And it brought a reward: $10,000 for information leading to the arrest and conviction of those responsible for Khadijah’s disappearance.
But even with federal involvement, even with rewards and press conferences and community vigils, Khadijah remained missing.
And Negie Fallis remained the primary person of interest—never officially cleared, never officially charged.
A Community That Refuses to Forget
In the months and years following Khadijah’s disappearance, her family and the Round Valley Indian Tribes community launched a campaign to ensure she would never be forgotten.
They organized searches, combing through the rugged terrain around Covelo, hoping against hope that they might find some trace of her. They held vigils, lighting candles and saying prayers for a young woman whose bright future had been snuffed out far too soon. They plastered her face on posters, on social media, on billboards—anywhere someone might see her and remember.
In February 2021, three years after Khadijah vanished, the Mendocino County Sheriff’s Office and the FBI held a virtual investigation update, urging anyone with information to come forward. They emphasized that even the smallest detail, something that might seem insignificant to a witness, could be the key that breaks the case wide open.
By that point, the reward for information leading to Khadijah’s location had grown substantially. An anonymous donor had come forward with funds, raising the total reward to $50,000. Eventually, that number would climb even higher—to an astonishing $85,000.
Eighty-five thousand dollars.
That’s not counting the separate FBI reward of $10,000 for information leading to arrest and conviction. That’s money specifically for finding Khadijah, for bringing her home, whether alive or—as everyone increasingly feared—deceased.
Someone, somewhere, knows what happened to Khadijah Britton. In a town as small as Covelo, in a community as tight-knit as the Round Valley Indian Tribes, it’s nearly impossible for a secret that big to stay buried forever.
But so far, that secret has held.
On September 25, 2024—what would have been Khadijah’s 25th birthday—the community gathered to plant a tree in her honor. Her family spoke about the young woman they remembered: athletic, kind, full of life and potential. They spoke about the hole her absence had left in their lives, a void that could never be filled.
They also spoke about justice. About accountability. About the frustration of watching years slip by without answers, without closure, without the basic human dignity of knowing where their daughter, their sister, their friend had been laid to rest.
“Whether it’s our mothers, daughters, sisters, we need them back,” said Dustin Murray, tribal administrator for the Shingle Springs Band of Miwok Indians, speaking about the broader crisis of missing Indigenous women. “Without the spotlight this issue is receiving, a lot of people might just go about their day not knowing this is an issue. Our women and children and people face disproportionately wide amounts of violence of any kind. The unfortunate end is them missing or murdered”.
Khadijah’s case became a rallying cry for other families, other communities dealing with similar tragedies. Her face appeared at rallies and protests demanding justice for missing and murdered Indigenous women. Her story was told on podcasts, in documentary films, in news articles that tried to keep the pressure on law enforcement to solve her case.
But stories and vigils and symbolic trees can’t bring back the dead. And they can’t force a legal system to charge someone when prosecutors believe the evidence isn’t sufficient.
The Man Who Walked Away
While Khadijah’s family mourned and searched and fought for justice, Negie Fallis continued living his life.
After being released on the domestic violence charges related to the hammer incident, Fallis found himself in legal trouble again—but once more, not for anything connected to Khadijah’s disappearance.
On December 4, 2020, nearly three years after Khadijah vanished, Negie Fallis was sentenced to four years in state prison for felony possession of a firearm. It was a charge completely unrelated to Khadijah, just another addition to his growing criminal record.
He served his time in federal prison. But here’s where the story takes another infuriating turn: instead of serving the full sentence, Fallis was released after just thirteen months.
Thirteen months.
In September 2022, Negie Fallis walked out of federal prison and was transferred back to Mendocino County jail for additional charges unrelated to Khadijah. He cycled in and out of the legal system, racking up charges, serving short sentences, getting released—a familiar pattern for career criminals who know how to work the system.
But he was never, not once, charged with kidnapping or harming Khadijah Britton.
For her family, watching him go about his life—getting arrested, getting released, moving freely while their daughter lay somewhere unknown—was a special kind of torture. It felt like a mockery of justice, a slap in the face to everyone who knew, who knew, that he was responsible for Khadijah’s disappearance.
“How is he not arrested?” became the rallying cry on social media posts about Khadijah’s case. “Everyone saw what happened. Everyone knows who did it. So why no arrest?”
The answer, unsatisfying as it is, comes down to the burden of proof required in criminal cases. In the United States, prosecutors must prove guilt beyond a reasonable doubt. Without Khadijah’s body, without physical evidence linking Fallis to her death, without a confession or forensic proof, building a case that can withstand the scrutiny of a trial becomes exponentially more difficult.
Witnesses saw Khadijah forced into Fallis’s car at gunpoint. But they didn’t see what happened after that. They couldn’t testify to how she died, where her body was disposed of, or provide the concrete evidence that would be required to secure a conviction.
Defense attorneys would shred such a case in court. They would argue that Khadijah could have left voluntarily at some point. They would suggest alternative theories—maybe she ran away, maybe she’s still alive somewhere, maybe someone else is responsible. Without a body, without that undeniable proof of death, reasonable doubt creeps in.
Prosecutors know this. They know that bringing charges without sufficient evidence not only risks an acquittal—which would prevent them from ever charging the suspect again due to double jeopardy laws—but also traumatizes the victim’s family all over again when they watch the accused walk free from a courtroom.
So they wait. They investigate. They hope for a breakthrough, a confession, a witness with new information, a hiker stumbling across remains in the vast wilderness surrounding Covelo.
They hope.
And while they hope, Khadijah’s family grieves.
The Questions That Haunt the Night
Seven years have passed since that midnight confrontation on Airport Road.
Seven years of birthdays celebrated without her. Seven years of holidays with an empty chair at the table. Seven years of wondering, every single day, where Khadijah is.
Is she buried somewhere in the dense forests that surround Covelo? Was her body weighted down and thrown into one of the rivers or lakes that dot Mendocino County? Did Negie Fallis have help disposing of her remains, someone who has kept that terrible secret all these years?
These are the questions that torment her family. These are the scenarios that play out in their minds in the dark hours before dawn when sleep won’t come.
Khadijah’s mother, Connie Hostler, has spent seven years navigating a grief that has no endpoint, no resolution. When someone you love dies, there are rituals: funerals, burials, memorials. There’s a finality that, while painful, at least provides closure.
But when someone vanishes, when their body is never recovered, that grief becomes suspended in time. You can’t move forward because there’s always that tiny, irrational sliver of hope that maybe, somehow, they’re still alive. Maybe they’ll walk through the door one day with an explanation for where they’ve been.
Deep down, you know that’s not going to happen. Logic tells you that a young woman who was forced into a car at gunpoint by a violent ex-boyfriend is not coming home. But hope, irrational and stubborn, refuses to die.
That’s the cruelty of cases like Khadijah’s. The families exist in a perpetual state of limbo, unable to grieve properly because there’s no body to bury, no grave to visit, no concrete proof that their loved one is truly gone.
“Family vows to never let Khadijah Britton be forgotten as authorities renew call for witnesses to come forward,” read one headline from 2021. Three years had passed, and her family was still fighting, still hoping, still refusing to accept that their daughter would become just another forgotten statistic.
Because that’s what happens to so many Indigenous women who disappear. Their cases get filed away. The media attention fades. The public forgets. And their families are left to carry the burden of remembrance alone.
Khadijah’s family was determined that would not be her fate.
The Bigger Picture
Khadijah Britton’s story is not unique, and that might be the most tragic part of all.
Across the United States and Canada, Indigenous women and girls disappear at rates that should shock the conscience of every person who hears the statistics. In Canada, Indigenous women made up 16% of all women murdered between 1980 and 2012, despite representing only 4% of the female population. In the United States, murder rates for Indigenous women are second only to African American women nationally, but in counties with significant tribal populations, the rates can be ten times higher than the national average.
These aren’t just numbers on a page. These are daughters, mothers, sisters, friends. These are women like Khadijah—young, full of potential, their lives cut short by violence.
The reasons behind this epidemic are complex and deeply rooted in historical trauma, systemic racism, jurisdictional issues on tribal lands, and a law enforcement apparatus that has historically undervalued Indigenous lives. When an Indigenous woman goes missing, her case often doesn’t receive the same media attention, the same resources, or the same urgency as cases involving white women—a disparity that has been termed “Missing White Woman Syndrome”.
Khadijah’s case did receive attention, partly because of her family’s tireless advocacy and partly because of the dramatic circumstances of her disappearance. But for every Khadijah whose name makes headlines, there are dozens more whose disappearances barely merit a mention in local news.
The Sovereign Bodies Institute estimates that the true number of missing and murdered Indigenous people in California alone could number in the thousands—cases that were never properly investigated, never properly recorded, victims who were misclassified in official records or whose disappearances were never reported at all.
“What’s more scary is the inaccuracies that we know exist in collecting this type of data,” said Dustin Murray. “Those are the reported cases. What about the unreported cases?”
It’s a question that should keep all of us awake at night.
Where Things Stand Today
As of 2025, Khadijah Britton has been missing for seven years.
The FBI still lists her case as active and unsolved. The reward for information about her disappearance has grown to an astounding $85,000 from an anonymous donor, plus an additional $10,000 from the FBI for information leading to arrest and conviction.
That’s $95,000 in total rewards—an enormous sum that speaks to the desperation of everyone involved to finally get answers.
Negie Fallis remains the primary person of interest in her disappearance. He has never been officially cleared. He has never been officially charged. He exists in a legal gray area, a man everyone suspects but no one can prosecute.
The Mendocino County Sheriff’s Office continues to investigate, following up on tips when they come in, reviewing evidence, hoping for that one breakthrough that will finally allow them to bring charges. The FBI remains involved, bringing federal resources and expertise to a case that has consumed countless hours of investigation.
But without new evidence, without a body, without a witness who can provide that crucial missing piece of information, the case remains frozen.
Khadijah’s family continues their vigil. They continue to share her story on social media, to mark her birthday and the anniversary of her disappearance with memorial events, to keep her name and her face in the public consciousness. They continue to hope that someone, somewhere, will develop a conscience and come forward with information.
They continue to live with the unbearable weight of not knowing.
The Witness Who Saw Everything
The most haunting aspect of Khadijah Britton’s case is this: it wasn’t a perfect crime. It wasn’t a carefully planned abduction where the perpetrator left no witnesses, no traces, no evidence.
People saw what happened.
Multiple witnesses watched as Negie Fallis showed up at that house on Airport Road with a gun. They saw the confrontation. They saw Khadijah being forced, at gunpoint, into the back of his black Mercedes. They saw him drive away with her.
And yet, seven years later, he has never been charged.
This is what makes Khadijah’s case so frustrating, so enraging, so utterly incomprehensible to anyone who hears the basic facts. This wasn’t a mystery in the traditional sense. Everyone knew who took Khadijah. Everyone knew when and how and where.
What they don’t know—what no one can prove—is what happened after that car drove away into the darkness.
That’s the piece that’s missing. That’s the evidence that prosecutors need. That’s the information worth $95,000 to anyone who can provide it.
A Call That Still Echoes
If you were in Covelo, California on the night of February 7-8, 2018, and you saw something, heard something, or know something about what happened to Khadijah Britton, there are people waiting for your call.
If you have information about where Negie Fallis went that night after he left Airport Road with Khadijah in his car, there are people who need to hear from you.
If you helped dispose of evidence, if you’ve carried a guilty secret for seven years, if you know where Khadijah’s body is buried, it’s not too late to do the right thing.
The Mendocino County Sheriff’s Office can be reached at (707) 463-4411. The FBI’s San Francisco Division can be contacted at (415) 553-7400. Both agencies accept anonymous tips.
There’s $85,000 for information leading to Khadijah’s location. There’s an additional $10,000 from the FBI for information leading to arrest and conviction. But more than the money, there’s a family that deserves answers. There’s a community that deserves justice. There’s a young woman who deserves to be brought home.
Khadijah Rose Britton was twenty-three years old when she was forced into a car at gunpoint in front of witnesses. She was a member of the Wailaki tribe, a daughter of the Round Valley Indian Tribes, a former basketball star with her whole life ahead of her.
She was a survivor of domestic violence who did everything right—she reported her abuse, she left her abuser, she sought safety.
And she still disappeared.
Seven years later, her family is still waiting. Still hoping. Still searching for their daughter to come home.
Seven years later, the man everyone saw take her has never been charged.
Seven years later, Khadijah Britton is still missing.
And the question that haunts everyone who knows her story remains unanswered: How?
How does someone disappear in front of witnesses? How does the primary suspect remain uncharged for seven years? How does a case with such clear circumstances remain unsolved?
The answer lies somewhere in the darkness where Negie Fallis’s Mercedes drove that February night. The answer is buried somewhere in the forests or waters of Mendocino County. The answer is locked in the conscience of someone who knows more than they’ve said.
Someone knows.
Someone always knows.
And until that person speaks, Khadijah Britton’s family will continue their vigil, continue their search, continue their fight for justice.
Because a young woman who was forced into a car at gunpoint in front of witnesses deserves more than to simply vanish.
She deserves to be found.
She deserves justice.
She deserves to come home.
