A seven-year-old boy’s frantic voice shattered the early morning quiet in a southwest Las Vegas home on January 28, 2026, as he dialed 911 and reported finding his mother unresponsive. What unfolded next was a nightmare that has gripped the city: the discovery of 31-year-old Briana Flowers and her 31-year-old friend Anfernee Pollard, both suffering from devastating gunshot wounds. Despite desperate attempts by first responders to save them, the pair was pronounced dead at the scene. Police quickly classified the tragedy as a double homicide, launching an intensive investigation that has left the community reeling and raising urgent questions about domestic violence, stalking, and the failures of protection systems meant to shield vulnerable women.
Briana Flowers had been living in fear for weeks, if not longer. Friends and family describe a woman who was devoted to her young son—referred to in some reports as Amill—and who had recently stepped up to care for her younger sisters after their own mother’s passing. Yet beneath the surface of her daily life as a single mother simmered escalating threats. Just a week before the fatal shooting, Briana had contacted police to report that her ex-boyfriend had allegedly attempted to kill her. She emerged from the encounter bruised, battered, and in need of medical attention. The incident wasn’t isolated; it fit into a pattern of domestic violence and persistent stalking that had left her feeling unsafe even inside her own walls.
Days before her death, the terror intensified in a chilling way. Briana confided to close friend Shatiera Davis that she had woken suddenly in the night with an overwhelming sense of dread. Peering through the blinds of her bedroom window, she saw a man standing outside, staring directly at her as she slept. The figure matched her description of her ex-boyfriend. Heart pounding, she watched as he slipped away and climbed into a car before vanishing into the darkness. “She told me, she said, ‘I just had a feeling to wake up and I looked out my window and someone was staring at me,’” Shatiera recounted in interviews with local media. The violation felt profoundly personal—someone invading the one place she should have felt secure.
Terrified and increasingly isolated, Briana began taking precautions. She screened calls from unknown numbers that kept coming through on her phone. Friends, recognizing the danger, rallied around her. Anfernee Pollard, described by those who knew him as a protector and a safe haven for the people he loved, had been staying over at the home. He wasn’t just a casual visitor; he was there because Briana no longer felt safe sleeping alone. The arrangement was meant to provide security in the face of mounting threats. Tragically, it proved insufficient against whatever force ultimately entered that home and ended two lives.
The morning of January 28 began like any other until the silence became unbearable. Briana’s seven-year-old son stirred, perhaps expecting to find his mother preparing breakfast or getting ready for the day. Instead, he encountered a scene of unimaginable horror: his mother and Anfernee lying unresponsive, blood staining the floors of their southwest Las Vegas residence. In a moment that no child should ever face, the boy grabbed a phone and called emergency services. His small, trembling voice conveyed the unimaginable to the 911 dispatcher. Officers from the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department raced to the address, arriving around 7:20 a.m. They found both victims still clinging to life but suffering from life-threatening gunshot wounds. Paramedics worked frantically, but the injuries were too severe. Both Briana Flowers and Anfernee Pollard were declared dead at the scene.
The Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department wasted no time in labeling the case a double homicide. Detectives sealed off the property, combing for evidence: shell casings, potential signs of forced entry, security footage from nearby homes or doorbell cameras, and any digital trail that might point to the killer. No suspects have been publicly named, and authorities have remained tight-lipped about whether the deaths are directly linked to the reported stalking and domestic violence. Yet the timing and context have fueled speculation and outrage among Briana’s loved ones and the broader community.
Shatiera Davis, who serves as the young boy’s godmother, has been vocal about the warning signs that went unheeded. She painted a picture of a woman who tried everything within her power to escape danger—reporting incidents to police, seeking support from friends, even accepting overnight protection from someone she trusted. “She saw someone looking in her blinds in her house while she was asleep,” Shatiera emphasized, her words carrying the weight of hindsight. The failure to connect those dots earlier has left many questioning whether more aggressive intervention—perhaps a restraining order enforced more rigorously, or enhanced victim services—could have changed the outcome.
Anfernee Pollard’s death adds another layer of heartbreak. GoFundMe pages set up in the wake of the tragedy describe him as “the kind of man who always stood as a protector and safe space for the people he loved.” He stepped into a dangerous situation not out of obligation but out of genuine care, only to lose his life alongside the woman he was trying to shield. His presence underscores a grim reality: even well-intentioned guardians can become victims when violence escalates unchecked.
The ripple effects extend far beyond the crime scene. Briana’s seven-year-old son now faces a future without his mother, thrust into grief at an age when most children are just beginning to understand the world. A fundraiser established to support his education and future needs has already raised more than $11,500, a testament to the community’s outpouring of compassion. Yet money cannot replace the loss of a parent or erase the trauma of that morning’s discovery. The boy’s godmother and other relatives are stepping in, but the emotional scars will linger for years.
Briana herself carried additional burdens. After her own mother’s death, she had taken custody of her younger sisters, assuming responsibility for their care in addition to raising her son. In an instant, those children lost not only their sister but the stability she provided. The family’s grief compounds with every retelling of the story, each detail amplifying the sense of preventable tragedy.
Las Vegas, a city accustomed to headlines of violence tied to its nightlife and tourism, has been forced to confront a more intimate, domestic form of horror. Domestic violence advocates point to this case as emblematic of broader systemic issues: under-resourced victim services, delays in processing restraining orders, and the difficulty of protecting someone from a determined abuser who knows their routines and vulnerabilities. Stalking, in particular, often escalates gradually—phone calls, unwanted appearances, surveillance—until it erupts into lethal violence. Briana’s reports of being watched through her window fit a classic pattern that experts say demands immediate, decisive action.
As investigators continue their work, questions swirl. Was there forced entry, or did the killer have access? Did surveillance capture anything useful? Could forensic evidence—ballistics, fingerprints, DNA—lead to an arrest? The absence of a named suspect keeps the community on edge, wondering if the perpetrator remains free, perhaps watching from the shadows as police close in.
For now, the home in southwest Las Vegas stands silent, cordoned off as a crime scene while detectives piece together the final hours of two lives cut short. Briana Flowers sought safety and found only danger. Anfernee Pollard offered protection and paid the ultimate price. And a seven-year-old boy, whose innocent 911 call captured the world’s attention, must somehow navigate a future forever altered by the sound of gunshots in the night.
The tragedy serves as a stark reminder that stalking and domestic violence are not private matters—they are public safety crises that demand vigilance from law enforcement, communities, and friends. Until systems catch up to the reality of escalating threats, stories like this will continue to unfold, leaving families shattered and questions unanswered.
In the desert heat of Las Vegas, where bright lights often mask dark realities, the loss of Briana and Anfernee stands as a somber warning: fear ignored can turn fatal, and protection offered too late can cost everything.
