The Day It Happened (A Miranda's Rights Mystery Book 0) by Linsey Lanier

The Day It Happened
     
    Oak Park, Illinois
    A nameless disquiet woke her.
    Miranda Groth opened her eyes to the sound of snowy sleet tapping against the narrow bedroom window like warning fingertips, desperate to rouse her.
    Drawing in a slow breath, she blinked and raised a hand to shade her eyes as she peered out at the icicles hanging from the eaves.
    December. She hated this time of year.
    Bad memories.
    Stretching, she sat up and realized it was the first time in three weeks she’d slept through the night. The first time her baby’s cry hadn’t gotten her up to feed or to soothe.
    Her baby. Her only hope now. And then her mind cleared.
    Something was wrong.
    Jumping up, she snatched her bathrobe off a chair and pulled it snug around her. She padded across the floor in her bare feet. In the doorway, she stood still, listening hard.
    Nothing. No sound at all.
    Sudden panic clawed at her chest. She shot down the hall to the makeshift nursery that was little more than a storage room. She stepped inside and hurried to the crib. She grasped the rail and held on with a death grip, as searing pain shot through her.
    The crib was…empty.
    Her baby. Her newborn. Her little Amy. Where was she? Where in the name of everything holy was her daughter?
    Wildly, she tore at the blankets as if the child could be hiding under them, but of course, she wasn’t there. Miranda spun around, digging her nails into her scalp. She blinked at the old boxes of junk piled in the corner. She raced to them, pulled them away from the wall. Not there.
    Hot tears stinging her eyes, she dropped to the floor and searched the bottom of the small closet. She pivoted and peered under the crib and the old dresser drawer in the corner.
    No sign of her baby.
    Her heart in a vice, she got up and dashed to the guestroom. She attacked the bed. “Amy,” she cried out, pulling apart pillows and spreads and sheets. “Amy. Amy.”
    Her baby wasn’t there.
    Gasping, she stood staring down at the mess she’d made and swiped at the tears now streaming down her face. What had happened to her daughter? Where was she?
    The living room? Blindly, she ran downstairs and began snatching cushions off the couch.
    She tried to think. She’d gone to bed early. Had she gotten up in the middle of the night and brought Amy down here? She would have remembered that. But she had shopped and cooked and scrubbed floors yesterday. Maybe she’d been too tired to remember. Had she laid Amy on the floor and fallen asleep? But she wouldn’t have gone back upstairs without her. Still, 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 turned and crept to the kitchen door.
    ###
    Miranda found Leon sitting at the small, green Formica-top table, dressed for work in his uniform, his black hair cut short in the regimental crew cut he liked, his 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, 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 sat in front of him. “You made yourself breakfast?” she asked in surprise. Leon had always insisted that was her job.
    “Just some toast.” He turned his head and glared at her as if she were one of those hookers on Elm Street he was always arresting. She knew he couldn’t stand the sight of her at times. He turned back to stare at the wall and took a sip of coffee. “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.