Excerpt - Someone Else's Daughter
Miranda's Rights series, Book I
It was the panic that woke her.
Miranda Groth opened her eyes to the sound of wet snow tapping against the narrow bedroom window, like restless fingers trying to rouse her.
She drew in a slow breath, peered outside. The light reflecting off the icicles on the eaves was bright and painful. December. She didn't like this time of year.
Bad memories.
Stretching, she sat up and realized it was the first time she'd slept through the night in weeks. The first time a baby's cry hadn't made her get up to feed or to soothe and cuddle. The panic came again.
Something was wrong.
She jumped to her feet, snatched her bathrobe off a chair, pulled it around her as she moved to the door. In the doorway she stood still a moment, listened hard.
Nothing. No sound at all.
The panic clawed at her, she shot down the hall to the makeshift nursery that was really no more than a storage room. She stepped inside and hurried to the crib.
Empty.
Grabbing onto the rail, she steadied herself. Her chest burned with searing pain. She wanted to retch.
Amy. Her baby. Her newborn. Her little Amy – Where was she? Where in the name of everything holy was her daughter?
She tore at the blankets, hoping wildly the child could be hiding under them, but there was nothing there. Nothing. She spun around, digging her nails into her scalp. She blinked at the old boxes of junk piled in the corner. Hot tears smoldered in her eyes.
"Amy!" she gasped, then turned and shot out the door. She dashed back to the bedroom, then to the guestroom, pulling apart pillows and bedspreads. "Amy! Amy!"
She swiped at the tears streaming down her face. What had happened to her baby? Where was her daughter?
Blindly, she ran downstairs and began snatching the cushions off the couch.
Miranda tried to think. She'd gone to bed early. Had she gotten up and taken Amy down here to the living room? How could she have forgotten that? Had she laid her on the floor and fallen asleep? Miranda lifted the worn apron of the couch and peeked under it.
Nothing.
Then she heard a noise and her breath caught in her throat. Slowly she rose and crept to the kitchen door.
* * *
Miranda found Leon sitting at the small chrome table, dressed for work in his uniform, his black hair cut short in the regimental style he liked, his black gun belt around his waist, heavy with handcuffs and billy club and pistol. He held his favorite cup in his hand. It read "World's Baddest Cop."
She put a hand over her mouth a moment, forced herself not to sound panicked. "I can't find Amy," she said in a hoarse whisper.
He didn't look at her, just stared at the wall. The side of his mouth jerked a bit, a nervous twitch he'd always had. He didn't like being around people.
A chipped plate scattered with stray crumbs in front of him. "You made yourself breakfast?" Leon had always insisted that was her job.
"Just some toast." He turned his head and looked at her as if she were one of those hookers on Elm Street he was always arresting. Then he turned back. He couldn't stand the sight of her at times. "I had an errand to run this morning."
"Where's –" she stopped herself before she said "our daughter." He didn't want her to call the child that. Her body trembled as she took a breath. "Where's Amy?"
Slowly he exhaled and turned back to her. Once she'd thought his eyes sexy, but now those cold black slits reminded her of a lurking animal ready to pounce. That look always made her feel so powerless. Like she was nothing.
Terror welled in her throat. "Where's Amy?" she asked again, trying not to sound hysterical. Leon hated it when she got emotional.
His reply was as icy as the snow outside. "I got rid of her."