The Day It Happened

by

Linsey Lanier

Extended Prologue

to the

Miranda’s Rights Mystery Series

Copyright © 2012 Linsey Lanier

All rights reserved. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, please return to your online distributor and purchase your own copy.

Thank you for respecting the author’s work and helping her earn a living.

Felicity Books

ISBN: 978-1-941191-05-7

Adult content. Short prologue.

A woman’s right to respect.

A woman’s right to be strong.

A woman’s right to her child.

What happened to Miranda Steele shouldn’t happen to anyone.

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Linsey’s website: http://www.linseylanier.com

Twitter: @LinseyLanier

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I love my readers and am truly grateful for all your support!

More Books by Linsey Lanier

THE MIRANDA’S RIGHTS MYSTERY SERIES

Someone Else’s Daughter – Book I

Delicious Torment – Book II

Forever Mine – Book III

Fire Dancer – Book IV

Thin Ice – Book V

THE MIRANDA AND PARKER MYSTERY SERIES

All Eyes on Me

Heart Wounds

Clowns and Cowboys

Look for the next mystery early in 2015.

OTHER SUSPENSE BOOKS BY LINSEY LANIER:

Chicago Cop (A cop family thriller)

Steal My Heart (A Romantic Suspense)

HUMOROUS BOOKS BY LINSEY LANIER

You Want Me to Kill Who? (A Dandy Frost—Ninja Assassin Story) #1

You Want Me to Go Where? (A Dandy Frost—Ninja Assassin Story) #2

The Clever Detective Boxed Set 2 (A Fairy Tale Romance): Stories 1-5

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. “Where’s Amy?”

Slowly he exhaled his irritation 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 up 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.”

Miranda hugged herself tight, feeling like she’d been struck in the chest with the butt of a rifle. “What?” she gasped.

“You heard me.” He rose, went to the sink to wash his hands.

Trembling, she picked up his plate and followed him. She had to control herself. She couldn’t let him see her panic. “Leon. What did you do with her?”

Meticulously, he wiped his hands on a dishtowel and watched her as she set the plate down in the sink. Her hand shook.

“I’ve put up with this nonsense for weeks,” he said in a flat tone. “I had to make a decision. I couldn’t have that vile thing in this house any longer.”

“Vile thing?” Her voice cracked with emotion. It wasn’t the first time he’d called Amy that. “She’s just a baby.”

He glared at her, those hateful black eyes taunting her. “She was your baby. We both know you’ve been ruined, Miranda. Ruined.”

Smarting with pain and humiliation, Miranda let out a sob as she pressed her hands to her head.

That again. She might have known. Amy didn’t belong to Leon, no matter how hard Miranda pretended she did.

When she’d learned she was pregnant, she’d made herself believe Leon would get used to the idea. She told herself the baby would bring them together again. They could get back to the way it had been when they were first married. They could be a family again.

Lies.

The truth was that the night her child was conceived had been the worst night of her life. That awful wintry night. Those gruesome hands tearing at her clothes. That horrid, hooded face. The cold ice scraping against her back. The things that stranger had done to her…. The examiner at the hospital had said she was lucky her injuries weren’t worse.

Miranda hadn’t felt lucky. She’d wished she were dead.

Leon had called it her “accident.” She’d been careless. Subconsciously, he said, she must have wanted it to happen, or it wouldn’t have. He wouldn’t let her go to the police. His buddies at the station would find out and realize what kind of woman he was married to. After that night, Leon had looked at her as though she were infected with some horrid disease he might catch if he got too close, though she’d tested clean for STDs.

Then he’d told her to get rid of the child. She’d refused.

Now, standing at the sink in their tiny kitchen, Miranda realized Leon had only been waiting until mid-November, until after Amy was born, to take the child from her. He probably thought she should be grateful he’d given her three weeks.

He brushed past her. “I have to go to work.”

“Leon.” Her throat strangled with anguish. “What have you done with her?”

He shook his head in that condescending way. “You’ve heard of adoption, haven’t you?”

She stared at him. “You gave Amy up for adoption?”

“Now your little brain is starting to work.” He reached for his thick policeman’s jacket.

She covered her mouth with both hands. He had to be lying. How could he have given Amy up for adoption without her consent? Who would have taken her?

Reading her thoughts, he exhaled in frustration. “I had an opportunity. There wasn’t time to convince you of the sense of it, so I duplicated your signature on the papers.”

She blinked at him. Forged, he meant. He must have bribed someone to look the other way. “How?” she dared to ask, forcing her tone not to sound too demanding.

“It wasn’t difficult. I know people. Judges. Court Clerks. Members of agencies. I took her to one of those agencies early this morning.” He spoke as if talking to a child. “Don’t worry. They assured me she’d go to a good home. A family who’ll never know her true origin. I’m not a monster, after all.” He turned to go.

Miranda’s mind spun out of control. Tears began to run down her cheeks. “And you did this without even…asking me?”

The corner of his lip quivered. He was angry.

She’d seen his lip move in that way before and knew what it could mean, but suddenly she didn’t care. “How could you do that, Leon?”

“It wasn’t your decision to make.”

“Not my decision?” She’d given birth to the child, held her in her arms, fed her, loved her. And it wasn’t her decision?

Leon started to turn away.

“I want her back, Leon.”

He stopped, slowly rotated toward her and folded her arms across his chest. He laughed as if he pitied her utter stupidity. “She’s gone, Miranda. They took her away and neither of us will ever know where she went. You’ll never find her again.”

Never find her again?

Amy gone forever? Leon had taken away the only bright spot in her miserable life.

She raised her head and glared at him. Her feet began to move across the floor to him. Of their own accord, her hands lifted and she lunged at him, her nails groping for those sickening black eyes. “Nooo,” she shrieked.

For a single instant, his face flashed as white as the snow outside, as if he were too stunned to react. Then he caught her by the wrists, his mouth twisting with rage. “How dare you attack me?”

It was a stupid move. Leon did the attacking in this family. He shoved her away from him with such force, she staggered back against the refrigerator. The handle caught her in the ribs. She cried out in pain.

Before she could regain her balance, he stomped across the floor and grabbed her by the hair. He drew back his arm. “Don’t you ever do that again, you stupid bitch.”

The palm of his big hand smacked hard against her mouth. She felt her lip open and start to bleed as she crumpled onto the floor.

She covered her head as his arm lumbered back and forth over her, like a crazed elephant’s trunk, the blows landing on her arms, her shoulders, the back of her skull.

“You. Filthy. Whore.” He punctuated each word with another strike. “Look what you brought into our home. Look what you’ve done to us.”

“Leon,” she sobbed. “Stop. Please, stop.”

After a few minutes, he did stop. He stood hovering over her like an insane beast, his chest heaving. She tried to get up, but he shoved her back down.

“I’m not finished.” He grabbed her wrist, dragged her across the floor.

“Leon, stop,” she cried, her shoulder burning with pain. She struggled to get to her feet as he yanked her up the stairs.

Leon didn’t answer. He didn’t seem to even hear her. It wasn’t until they reached the bedroom that he let go of her. As she crumpled into a sobbing heap, he moved to the closet with swift, soldier-like steps. He pulled out a suitcase, began shoving her clothes into it.

From the floor where he’d left her, Miranda lifted a shaky hand to her mouth to stop the blood oozing from her lip. “What are you doing?”

“What I should have done the night your bastard was conceived. What I’ve wanted to do for months.” His voice shook with quiet rage.

He jammed the suitcase shut, grabbed her by the wrist again and forced her back downstairs.

“What are you doing?” Miranda screamed as he wrestled the front door open.

“Purging my house.” He tossed the suitcase onto the snow in the front yard. It broke open and her clothes tumbled out. Then he gave her a hard push.

She stumbled outside onto the cold concrete step. Her feet were bare. She was still in her bathrobe. “Leon,” she begged. “Let me back in. What will the neighbors think?”

“They’re at work. Besides, no one cares about you. They know what you are.” He shoved her again.

She staggered off the stoop and landed with a hard thud on the ground next to her clothes.

He grabbed her purse from a chair and tossed it beside her. “Take this and go, Miranda. Go away.” His voice was dark and almost calm now. “I never want to see your face again.” He slammed the door so hard, it made the air vibrate. She heard him turn the latch.

Her chest heaving, she tried to catch her breath. For a long while, she sat staring at the locked door. That plain wooden door Leon had carried her through when they were first married. She’d been so happy then. So full of hope.

The overcast sky grew darker, as if the sun would never shine again. The air became colder. It started to snow.

Soft flakes fell cold against her cheeks. They were all she could feel now. No pain. No fear. Only the snow. And empty…nothingness. The same nothingness that had enveloped her ten months ago on the night she’d been attacked by a nameless face.

After awhile, her toes began to burn. She turned over and found a pair of socks in the snow. She pulled them on.

Crawling on her knees, she packed her clothes back into the suitcase. The suitcase wouldn’t close. The latch was broken.

Once more, she looked at the door. Go back. He’ll forgive you. He always does.

But he’d taken Amy away.

Instead, she got to her feet, swiped at her face with the sleeve of her bathrobe. She wasn’t crying anymore. She picked up her broken suitcase and her purse, and hobbled down the driveway to the sidewalk.

She couldn’t feel the cold anymore. She couldn’t feel anything. She was numb. She was beyond pain. Beyond all feeling of any kind. She was in some distant, faraway place.

Maybe…if she were lucky…she could find a way to stay there.

###

After that morning, the memories were patchy.

She could remember making her way to a cheap motel along a busy highway. She could remember lying on a thin bed in a small room, sobbing uncontrollably. She could remember the desolation that had swallowed her whole.

She could remember the sound of running water and the smell of institutional cleaners as she stood at the bathroom sink and stared down at a razor blade. She could remember the slippery feel of blood running over her palms.

She could remember the blaze of headlights. The blare of horns. The concern in the voices of strangers when they found her wandering around in her bathrobe in the middle of the interstate, her wrists dripping on the icy pavement.

She could remember the psycho ward of the state hospital. The doctors and counselors trying to help. And the words of one of them.

You’re stronger than you think. Survive for your daughter.

She could remember deciding to live.

And with that decision, the shame and fear and pain began to melt away, and in their place grew something else. Something hard. Impenetrable. Something that told her no one would ever hurt her like that again.

She wouldn’t let them.

The days passed. Her wounds healed and she left the hospital and moved to a battered women’s shelter. There she endured hours of state-sponsored therapy. She attended vocational education classes. She took self-defense courses to build her confidence. More days passed.

When it came time for her first full-time job, she asked for something physical. The recruiter laughed and said she was too thin and delicate for construction work. She ignored him and took a job as a roofer’s helper.

Hauling shingles and pounding nails all day in the company of burly men was just what she wanted. Not only could it give you muscles, it could thicken your skin. A woman could never make herself too tough or too strong. Or too street smart.

She did well, even excelled at it. She relished taking her male coworkers’ egos down a notch and showing them a woman could do their jobs. True, the work was boring, but it would do for now.

She took martial arts classes, hung out in bars, picked up an assortment of dirty tricks in a few fights. Even got arrested a few times for brawling.

She grew tan and muscular and lean. Not what you’d call a bruiser, but she could hold her own even with the husky men she’d worked with. No one would ever get the best of her again.

She’d remade herself.

She was Miranda Steele now, her maiden name, which she took after the divorce papers from Leon came. He’d claimed desertion—one of his judge friends must have granted it. At the shelter, they’d told her the typical abuser often becomes a stalker. Miranda knew Leon wasn’t like that. The papers proved he’d meant it when he said he never wanted to see her face again.

For a while she’d lost it. A part of her still loved him. A part of her wanted to go crawling back to him. But the new part, the strong part, knew it was over. And was glad.

The last thing she needed was a man.

And yet, deep inside there was a void, like a missing piece of a jigsaw puzzle. Miranda knew what it was.

She wanted Amy.

Her tiny baby was the only good thing that had ever happened to her. If she could just have her back, she’d have that piece of herself. She’d be whole again.

Could she ever find her? Miranda didn’t know. But she decided to try.

Someone told her to petition the courts to open Amy’s adoption records. She did. She begged and pleaded and told her story over and over. Her ex-husband had taken her daughter without her consent. He’d forged her name on the papers. But the judge didn’t believe her. He’d seen too many women give up their children and change their minds later. Miranda’s claim didn’t “mitigate” the sealed records law. He refused her petition.

He was probably one of Leon’s old cronies. For days, she was livid over his decision. Finally, she had to do something. But it turned out to be something she would always be ashamed of.

She broke into the court building at night and put a cherry bomb in the men’s john. It wrecked the plumbing, burst the commode and flooded the floors. Miranda had made sure nobody got hurt. But the stunt got her jail time and a month of community service. And a write-up in the papers. Not one of her prouder moments.

When she got out, she went to see one of the counselors at the woman’s shelter, who advised Miranda to re-channel her energies into positive efforts and told her about adoption reunion agencies—special groups that brought adoptees together with their birth parents.

She registered with every one she could find, but none of the agencies had any information about Amy. Their success cases always involved adult children.

She hired a detective and ended up shafted out of three thousand hard-earned dollars. She saw a priest. She talked to teachers and social workers and more counselors. No one could tell her what to do. Most of them said she’d never find her daughter and that she’d just have to learn to deal with the loss.

Miranda refused to accept that.

She started looking for Amy on her own, driving through neighborhoods, asking strangers if they knew of an adopted little girl that matched the description she gave them—details pieced together from the fading memory of the baby she’d had for three weeks.

But strangers couldn’t help. Most of them didn’t believe her. They saw her as some kind of kook, or worse, a predator. Some of them called the cops. When she tried to explain she was looking for her birth daughter, the cops sided with the courts and told her to stop harassing people. She had no leads, no clues. Nothing.

She wanted to give up.

Then, a nameless, restless urge came over her. Amy could be anywhere after all. Why stay here in Chicago?

She started crisscrossing the country, taking any work she could find, the more physical and dangerous, the better. She welded girders on a skyscraper in New York, harvested crab on a fishing boat in Maine, did odd jobs on an oilrig in Texas.

But she never did find Amy.

Aimlessly, she continued to roam about, taking jobs here and there, making casual acquaintances, leaving them behind. Always moving. Maybe she was running from the horrors of her past, like one of her counselors had said. Maybe she was running from herself. What was she doing with her life, anyway?

She should go to school, find a career, better herself. But she didn’t have the heart.

Would she ever find the daughter Leon had taken from he? She didn’t know. All she knew was she had to keep trying.

THE END

Will Miranda ever find her daughter?

Will she ever find herself?

Will she ever find a man she can love?

Find out more in the Miranda’s Rights Murder Mystery series. (Excerpt below.)

Thank you for reading The Day It Happened, the extended prologue to the Miranda’s Rights Mystery series.

If you enjoyed the prologue, you’ll enjoy the entire series, available at:

Linsey’s Books on Amazon

THE MIRANDA’S RIGHTS MYSTERY SERIES

Someone Else’s Daughter – Book I

Delicious Torment – Book II

Forever Mine – Book III

Fire Dancer – Book IV

Thin Ice – Book V

THE MIRANDA AND PARKER MYSTERY SERIES

All Eyes on Me

Heart Wounds

Clowns and Cowboys

Look for the next mystery early in 2015.

OTHER BOOKS BY LINSEY LANIER:

Chicago Cop (A cop family thriller) – Don’t let them take what you love, baby girl. A police thriller featuring GUTS team lead Lieutenant Maggie Delaney, a tough multi-generational cop hunting down a crazed mafia hit man bent on revenge.

Steal My Heart (A Romantic Suspense) – Get me what I want or you’ll never see your daughter again. New York newspaper columnist, Paige Dunbar, can hardly breathe when she learns her precious three-year-old daughter has been kidnapped. She’ll do anything to get her back, including steal the famous Fantasia necklace the kidnapper wants. No one can stop her. Not even her sexy ex-jewel-thief-ex-husband.

HUMOROUS BOOKS BY LINSEY LANIER

THE DANDY FROST—NINJA ASSASSIN STORIES

A New Adult, futuristic romantic fantasy series.

A lowly, powerless factory worker is sent half-way around the world by her boss to fight an evil spy organization, but she really just wants to be a fashion designer.

You Want Me to Kill Who? — Book One

You Want Me to Go Where? — Book Two

The Clever Detective Boxed Set 2 (A Fairy Tale Romance): Stories 1-5

From the Hollow Tree to Stacey’s home town to the mountains of Sweden to the high seas, follow PI Stacey Alexander and Prince Chad’s adventures and romance.

For more information, see www.FelicityBooks.com.

For updates on upcoming books, join Linsey’s Fan List.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Writing fiction for over fifteen years, Linsey Lanier authored more than a dozen novels and short stories, including the popular Miranda’s Rights Mystery series. She writes romantic suspense, mysteries, and thrillers with a dash of sass.

She is a member of Romance Writers of America, the Kiss of Death chapter, and Private Eye Writers of America. Her books have been nominated in several RWA-sponsored contests.

Living outside a major city with her husband of over two decades, Linsey enjoys watching crime shows with him and trying to figure out “who-dun-it.”

She’s always working on a new book, currently books in the new Miranda and Parker Mystery series (a continuation of the Miranda’s Rights Mystery series). For alerts on her latest releases join Linsey’s mailing list at linseylanier.com.

###

Miranda’s Rights Mysteries—Book I, Excerpt

Someone Else’s Daughter

She could make it to the trees. She was too far away for him to catch up now. It started to rain. A soft rain. The kind, somebody had told her, that often came up in Georgia without warning. Beneath her, the ground sloped steeply as the grass grew wet. She slipped, tried to stifle a yelp, but it escaped her lips.

The cop heard her. His light found her. “Stop,” he yelled.

Man, she was having a bad night.

But the rain slowed him down, too. She could hear him grunting and cussing behind her as he struggled down the slippery incline. She reached the bottom and the land became flat again. Almost there. She sprinted across a patch of grass to the first clump of trees. Hesitating, she stopped to catch her breath.

The bright moon cast an eerie glow on the rocks and wild growth. She’d never liked wooded areas. She thought about murders in the forest preserves where she’d grown up. She thought of stories she’d heard about snakes in the Georgia woods. She glanced behind her.

The cop’s light bobbed about halfway down the hill.

No choice. Gritting her teeth, she braced herself and stepped into the tall grass. Her foot went down on a squishy surface of pine straw and matted grass, a twig snapped, but it held. She took another step, reached out and felt tree bark in front of her. She sidestepped and moved around it. The ground was uneven and muddy. The drizzling rain fell against the leaves with a sound like soft cymbals. The air smelled cool and freshly washed. Brush tangled around her shins. Her hair and clothes were wet, but she couldn’t think about that now.

She looked back again, could barely make out the cop. That meant he couldn’t see her either. She’d done it. She’d escaped. But he’d be hunting her in these woods soon. Probably call out the cavalry, too. Maybe she could make it to the other side. It was part of a subdivision, after all. She couldn’t remember the layout of the forest from her map.

Better move faster. She took a quick step, then another. Found a spot where the trees opened up. She started to sprint. Wrong move. Something caught her foot. Down she went. She tried to catch herself on a tree, but her hand scrapped across its bark. Her palms skidded across the muddy ground.

Damn. She didn’t need this now. What had she’d tripped over? She brushed her hair out of her eyes, hoping she hadn’t landed on a slithering snake.

Then she froze.

Inches away from her face, lay a shape. A familiar shape. She stared at it, her breath coming in snatches. Was she hallucinating? It looked like a kid’s sneaker. Peeking out from a pile of wet twigs and pine straw, like it had been lost there. Or buried. She reached out and whisked away some of the debris covering it.

Her chest tightened. The sneaker had a foot in it.

She got to her knees to sweep off more dirt. An ankle. A sock. A hem of denim. Oh, God. It was a leg. A human leg. She found the other sneaker. She was shaking all over by now.

Her heart choking her throat, she crawled to the side of what she now realized was a mound. Desperately she shoved away the muck and grimy pine straw, the dreck someone had used to…she couldn’t even think it…to bury someone?

Two legs appeared under her hands, clad in a pair of designer jeans. The type hip young girls liked to wear. She kept going and found the bottom hem of a fancy, girlish T-shirt. Then two young hands…tied with thick rope, clasped together as if in prayer. Oh, God. This couldn’t be happening. Tears burned her eyes. She couldn’t stop herself. Madly, she brushed away the rest of the dirt, and at last, the face appeared. Young. Pretty. More than pretty. Beautiful. And perfectly still.

Dead.

Miranda’s mind reeled. This was the missing girl everyone was talking about. This was Madison. Had to be. But how did she get here?

Her whole body shuddering, she put her hands to her head. She had seen death before, knew the look of a body in a casket. An uncle she barely knew who’d passed away when she was a child, a fallen officer who’d been a buddy of Leon’s, her own mother lying so still in her coffin with her hard, stony face. But she’d never seen death like this.

So close, so stark, so…undeniable.

The air had a dank smell. Long, dark hair lay damp and matted on the ground. Gnats and flies buzzed around the swollen face, glistening with the raindrops that fell on it. Instead of a childlike expression of innocence, there was the whisper of a smile. An air of superiority, as if she had felt far above whoever had left her this way.

It was the eyes that got her. Open, staring, lifeless. Looking at them, Miranda felt as though a fist had reached inside her chest and yanked out her heart.

She forced her gaze away from the eyes. Her breath caught, as her mind cleared. The girl’s neck. She had to take a look at the girl’s neck.

She crept closer and saw that a wide, white ribbon had been tied around the young girl’s neck. What was that for? She didn’t know, but she had to look under it. She shouldn’t touch it. It was evidence. But she had to know.

Slowly, she reached out with trembling fingers and lifted the soft cloth, moist with the rainwater. Her hands shivered so hard, she could barely slip it down, but somehow she managed.

And then she saw it. The mark on her neck. Dark, round, distinct.

She put the soaking ribbon back in place. Her hands shook violently, shot to her mouth, her head. Her chest felt like it would burst. Tears streamed down her cheeks, mingled with the rain, dropped onto the forest floor.

This was Amy. This was her baby.

Someone Else’s Daughter is available on Amazon.

Connect with Linsey Online

Linsey’s Books on Amazon

Linsey’s website: http://www.linseylanier.com

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Twitter: @LinseyLanier

A Final Word:

My thanks to all my wonderful blog sisters at Petit Fours and Hot Tamales and to all my writing sisters in Georgia Romance Writers, KOD, and RWA.

And a special thanks to my beta reader, Pam. Couldn’t have done it without you.

And most of all, thank you, dear reader, for choosing my book. You make it all worthwhile.

Copyright © 2012 Linsey Lanier

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

Thank you for respecting the author’s work and helping her earn a living.