MR01 - Someone Else's Daughter Read online

  Someone Else’s Daughter

  by

  Linsey Lanier

  A Miranda’s Rights Murder Mystery

  Book I

  Copyright © 2011 Linsey Lanier

  Third Edition

  Adult content.

  In a ritzy subdivision outside Atlanta, Georgia, a serial killer is targeting thirteen-year-old girls and smart-talking, pepper-eating Miranda Steele is caught in the middle of it.

  Thirteen years ago, her abusive husband stole her baby and gave it up for adoption. Now Miranda has a letter from a girl in an Atlanta mansion—who claims she’s adopted. Is this her long lost child?

  Or is she someone else’s daughter?

  *

  iTunes Australia Bestseller (January 2012: eBooks, #8)

  A love story, a mystery and finding yourself when you thought there was nothing left to find.

  “Highly charged and emotional…. Read it with tissue from the very beginning.” Pamela Mason.

  “It was a great read, honestly couldn’t put it down and can’t wait to read the next one.” Cathie - Sydney, Australia

  “Miranda Steele is one ballsy lady who lives through hard times, has her heart broken and still has room left over for love. And she makes a great PI. I loved it! She’s what I’d call ‘one HOT pepper!’” Diane Kratz - crime fiction writer

  She doesn’t need a man.

  He wants to find a killer.

  Together, can they save a thirteen-year-old girl?

  Edited by

  Second Look Proofreading

  Gilly Wright

  www.facebook.com/GillyWrightsRedPen

  Visit Linsey on Amazon

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

  Twitter: @LinseyLanier

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

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

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  More Books by Linsey Lanier

  Excerpts

  Prologue

  Some women sit around in bars after they get dumped, complaining about the jerks who treated them like yesterday’s dog squeeze. Miranda Steele didn’t go to bars. She didn’t have friends to complain to. But she did have the dog squeeze beat out of her regularly by the jerk she was married to.

  That was until one cold wintry day when the jerk decided to dump her and throw her out in the snow.

  From the floor where Leon had left her, Miranda lifted a shaky hand to her mouth to stop the blood oozing from her cut 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 dragged her back downstairs.

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

  “Purging my house.” He hurled the suitcase into the snow on the front yard. It broke open and her clothes tumbled onto the snowy grass. Then he gave her a hard shove.

  She stumbled outside onto the cold concrete porch. 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 pushed 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 into the snow beside her. “Take this and go, Miranda. Go away from me.” His voice shook with dark rage. “I never want to see your face again.” He turned and slammed the door so hard, it made her eardrums vibrate. She heard him turn the key.

  Her chest heaving, she tried to catch her breath. As she sat on her bruised butt in her front yard in Oak Park, Illinois, dressed in only her PJs and bathrobe, staring up at the cheery, pink stucco two-story she’d lived in for seven years, Miranda didn’t wonder whether her “Lord and Master” had beaten her up and chucked her out because she hadn’t gotten the crease in his police uniform just right. Or because she’d mouthed off when he’d complained his steak was a bit singed last night.

  She knew exactly why he’d done it. She had dared to lunge at the great, the powerful, the all-holy Leon Groth, with her nails bared.

  And why had she done that? Not because he’d said she was stupid. Not because he’d called her a filthy whore. Not because he’d told her she was tainted, ruined. She was used to that.

  Because early this morning, he’d snuck out of the house with her three-week-old daughter and given her up for adoption.

  Adoption.

  “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.”

  Amy. Her baby.

  How had Leon pulled it off? He must have forged Miranda’s signature on whatever documents he needed. As a cop, he was connected. He had friends on the force who’d turn a blind eye for a favor owed. He knew court clerks, judges.

  The cold seeped into Miranda’s bones. Angry tears welled up in her throat. Amy. Her baby.

  Get her back. I want her back.

  She’s gone, Miranda. They took her away and neither of us will ever know where she went. You’ll never find her again.

  She should have known Leon would do something like this. He’d been pressuring her to give the baby up for adoption since she got pregnant. She should have know he’d meant it when he said he couldn’t live under the same roof with “it” any longer. He always referred to Amy as “it.” He hated her. He said Miranda had no right to keep her.

  Amy wasn’t his, after all. Leon was unable to have children after a bout of measles during their first year of marriage. The child had come from Miranda’s “unfortunate incident,” as he called it. The nightmare last February when she’d gone out late at night to get him ice cream.

  The memory of those hands grabbing her, that nameless hooded face hovering over her, hurting her, still filled her nights with terror and emptiness. The examiner at the hospital said she had been lucky. Hard to believe one woman could be so lucky when it came to men.

  She squeezed her eyes shut, trying not to see the empty crib she’d found this morning.

  Her baby. Where was her baby? Was she hungry? Cold?

  She laid her head against her knees, wanting to cry. Daring the hot tears to run down her face and sear her cheeks. She wanted to sob
forever. Her nose ran, her stomach was ready to heave, but the stubborn tears refused to come. They would later.

  She lifted her head, batted at her wet lips with her sleeve.

  Her jaw ached where Leon had smacked her. There’d be an ugly bruise on her cheek soon. Her wrists and shoulders were sore from being yanked down the stairs and across the floor. But she’d gotten in a nice nick on his chin, before he’d grabbed her arm and waled the tar out of her.

  Standing up to Leon, even for just a moment, had felt pretty good. She’d like to feel that way again.

  She gazed at the concrete porch he’d shoved her down, the front door he had carried her through when they were first married.

  Her toes began to burn. Her things were strewn all over the yard. She found a pair of socks in the snow and pulled them on. Crawling on her knees, she packed her clothes back into the suitcase Leon had tossed out with her. It refused to close. The latch was broken. Giving up, she struggled to her feet.

  It started to snow, the soft flakes falling against her cheeks, wetting her wiry, dark hair.

  Go back. He’ll forgive you. He always does.

  Leon would go off to work soon. She could go inside, get warm, start making preparations for a beef stew dinner, his favorite. Women like her always went back. Or so she’d heard on Oprah. He’d come home from work, they’d sit down at the table. Everything would be all right.

  Women like her always went back. She should do something about that. Slowly, she shook her head. Go back? Not this time.

  Disoriented, numb with pain, she reached for the broken suitcase and hobbled down the driveway. Her mother was gone, her father had left when she was little. She had no siblings, no close friends, no idea what she would do or where she would go. But just now, a seed of determination was breaking through the hard years of pain. Would it take root and grow? Why not? At twenty-three, her life was far from over.

  Yes, that seed would grow. One way or another.

  One way or another, she’d survive. One way or another, she’d learn not to be afraid. One way or another, she’d make herself so strong, no man would ever hurt her again.

  And one way or another, she would get her daughter back.

  Chapter One

  Thirteen Years Later

  “Go. Go. Go. Go.”

  Nothing like a chorus of burly fellow construction workers cheering you on to boost your ego. Miranda looked around at the half-demolished building, with its backdrop of modern skyscrapers and older structures against the gray, Pittsburgh sky, then she picked the bright green jalapeno off the paper plate that sat alongside the ham sandwiches and soda cans on the wooden slab that served as the crew’s lunch table.

  She waggled it under Dombroski’s nose. “Number five, Dumbo.”

  “That’s right, bitch,” he sneered. “Number five. I say you can’t do it.”

  Dumbo. That was her affectionate name for this baldheaded bruiser with the big ears who’d made her life on the wrecking crew hell for the three months she’d been in Steel Town.

  Miranda pulled at her leather jacket, took a whiff of the cool March air, and curled a lip at Dombroski. “Oh, do you?”

  “That’s right.”

  She leaned over the table. “I should have taken you down at Luigi’s last night.”

  Little Jake stepped between them. “Hey now, we made a deal.” It had been the skinny twenty-year-old who’d talked her out of belting that bastard in the bar when he’d called Jake a whore-loving fag—which didn’t even make sense. At the moment, Miranda couldn’t think what had made her agree to this pepper-eating contest instead. Some things were worth fighting over. Oh, yeah. She didn’t want to risk getting carted off to jail and losing this job.

  “Number five,” Miranda repeated.

  “That’s the record,” said Nye, the quiet black guy with ham-sized biceps she admired.

  Cassidy, the resident big guy on the crew at over three hundred and fifty pounds, shook his jowls. “Naw, the record’s seven. Some dude in Chambersburg set it.”

  Miranda nodded toward her opponent. “Doesn’t matter. Dumbo here’s already out.”

  “Don’t call me that,” he snarled. “You mean you’re out, don’t you, Steele?”

  “Not on your life.” Years ago, she’d discovered she had high tolerance for capsaicin. Dumbo didn’t know who he was talking to.

  Dramatically, she lifted the pepper to her lips, opened her mouth, and crunched down on it hard. The raw skin snapped between her teeth, burning like the Lake of Fire. She took a couple more bites, then put the whole thing in her mouth. She fought with the fiery seeds, forced back the tears behind her eyes, and finally got it down.

  She spat out the stem and held her hands up to the rest of the crew. “Nothing to it.” Good thing she got the words out before her tongue started to swell.

  They gave her a rousing round of applause for her efforts.

  She took a bow then pushed the plate toward Dombroski. “Your turn.”

  His eyes flashed like a police siren as he picked up his fifth jalapeno. “Take this, cunt.”

  It took all the control Miranda had not to deck him. Might be worth a night in jail.

  She leaned over the makeshift table. “Go ahead, Dumbo. Show me what you’ve got.”

  “I said, don’t call me that.” It looked like smoke was already coming out of his elephant ears. But he bit down hard on his pepper.

  For a minute, Miranda thought he might get it down. Then he grabbed his throat and started to sputter like a broken lawn sprinkler.

  “Hell. Damn,” he coughed, getting to his feet. His face turned the color of a stop sign. He grabbed a can of soda and started guzzling.

  Little Jake patted him on the back in alarm.

  Nye chuckled. “Looks like you lost, Dombroski.”

  Dumbo tried to answer, but all he could manage was a low, gurgling sound.

  Miranda couldn’t keep a straight face. She burst out laughing. Cassidy giggled, and soon the whole crew was guffawing. All but Dombroski, who was still choking and chugging down soda.

  “What the hell’s going on here?”

  Cassidy’s large face went deadpan. “Uh oh. The Super.”

  Charging toward them, the seven-foot man in the suit and blue hardhat looked like a steam cruiser. He went by the name Sherlock. As in, no shit.

  “We was just have a little game during lunch, boss,” Cassidy said, as the man approached.

  “Lunch time’s over,” Sherlock barked, glaring at Dombroski. “What’s wrong with him?”

  “He’ll be all right,” Nye said.

  Miranda picked up her hard hat and nonchalantly sidled back to the bucket she’d been filling with the concrete debris.

  Sherlock caught up to her and tapped her on the shoulder. “Hold it, Steele.”

  She turned to face him. “Jeez, boss, we were just having some fun.” Was she going to get fired again?

  He shook his head. “Never mind that. There’s a call for you.”

  She stared at him, taken off guard. “A call?” Nobody called her.

  “You can take it in the office.” He gestured toward the small trailer that sat on the corner of the lot. “Or ignore it and get back to work.”

  Might as well see who it was. “I’ll take it. Thanks.” She trotted over to the makeshift building.

  Inside, the tight space was empty of people and held only a couple of filing cabinets and a metal desk crowded with papers.

  Gingerly, Miranda picked up the line. “Hello?”

  “Is this Miranda Steele?”

  “None other.”

  There was a pause, then what sounded like a determined snort. “Ms. Steele, my name is Barbara Thomas. I’m with The Seekers. The adoption reunion organization? You registered with us online?”

  Miranda’s knees wobbled. The Seekers? Yeah, she’d registered with them. Along with every other adoption reunion agency she could find. She’d done that thirteen years ago on advice from a counselor at the b
attered women’s shelter she’d escaped to after Leon threw her out. And she updated her records every time she’d moved so they could contact her. But no one ever had. After all this time, Miranda had given up hope of ever finding Amy.

  She smirked in disbelief. “You mean you people actually look at that information?”

  After she left Leon, she’d tried to find Amy. With everything she had. She talked to counselors and social workers and clergy. Most of them thought she was lying about what he’d done. They believed she’d given her daughter up for adoption and changed her mind. She’d even petitioned the courts to open Amy’s records. The judge thought the same thing as the others and denied it.

  The woman on the phone hesitated a moment as if she didn’t know what to say. “Ms. Steele, my manager would like me to speak with you.”

  She looked at the receiver. “You’re speaking with me now.”

  “I mean in person. Are you available this Saturday?”

  Miranda’s heart started to race. She thought she might hyperventilate. Did this stranger have information about Amy? Did The Seekers know where her daughter was? “What’s wrong with right now?” Sherlock would give her an hour or so. She hoped.

  There was a pause. “I’m a volunteer. I won’t be in the office until the weekend.”

  It was only Tuesday. Miranda wasn’t going to wait all week to hear what this woman had to say about Amy. “Can’t we meet somewhere? A coffee shop maybe?”

  Another pause. Miranda wasn’t sure if it was pity or annoyance in the woman’s breathing. “You can come to my apartment. I don’t have to be at my regular job for another hour.”