Haunting Lies

Oh shit. Oh Jesus.

“No! Get away from me! Mommy, Mommy, Mommeeeee.” Miranda heard the phone drop and Mia’s strangled cry.

“Shut up,” a deep voice said in the background.

“Please don’t hurt me,” she whimpered.

Miranda’s throat thickened and her eyes burned.

She heard a thunk as if the phone had been knocked against something or someone. No one spoke, but on the other end she could hear heavy breathing.

“This is Special Agent Miranda Hastings.” Her voice wavered, but she swallowed to keep her emotions in check.

“Authorities are on their way right this second. I suggest you leave my house and my daughter unharmed before you do anything you’re going to regret.”

“No,” he said. “No regrets.”

On the other end, Mia screamed, but the scream was cut short.

“Mia!”

The line disconnected.

Miranda screamed into the phone before throwing it against the dash of her car.

Pulling onto her street, she could see the lights of a PD unit and Quinn’s SUV up ahead.

The car screamed to the curb and she leaped out, gun drawn. She sprinted forward, running as hard as she could in a nightmare slow motion.

As she barreled through the front door, she smelled burned gunpowder underlying the hot copper stench of fresh blood.

Brooke was lying facedown on the floor in a pool of blood.

“Ah,” she said. And then: “God.”

She was beyond her help, and immediately Miranda turned away from her, her vision blurring.

“Mia!”

The name echoed through the large house.

“Mia, where are you?”

“Hastings! We’re up here!”

She ran to the stairs, climbing them two at a time. Her heart was beating with such tremendous force that she felt as if it would tear loose of her.

She was breathing too fast, hyperventilating. In Mia’s bedroom, she found what she most feared to find.

Quinn and one of the officers were trying to stop the geyser of arterial blood that sprayed from the neck of her nine-year-old daughter while the other officer radioed for the paramedics.

This wasn’t happening. This had to be a dream. Except she knew it wasn’t. With a shaky hand she holstered her weapon.

Her whole body hummed and heated with adrenaline. Her palms prickled and her stomach roiled at the sight. She held her stomach, trying to suppress the urge to retch.

She ran over to Mia, kneeling in a pool of blood, and took her hand. She stared into her eyes, and Mia stared back as pained whimpers escaped her lips.

Tears burned and brimmed in her eyes, blurring her vision. “I know, baby. I know…”

Her daughter’s face began to grow pale as she drained of blood, dark red and gluttonous blood flowing rapidly from her neck and abdomen.

“Listen to me,” Miranda said. “I know this hurts, baby. Everything’s going to be all right, just fine. Just stay with me.”

“Where’s my medic, officer?” she shouted behind her with a bite of impatience.

“Miranda…” Quinn’s voice was heavy with emotion.

She wheeled back to Mia whose whimpers had stopped, her eyes wide and staring. Her mouth was open, and blood moistened her lips.

“No. No, Mia, don’t do this to me, baby.” The sound was broken as it left her trembling lips.

“Don’t do this to me, baby girl. Come on… No, no… Oh no, no, no… Please. Oh, God. Please, please, don’t do this. Please, God…”

With the exception of her heavy breathing, silence stretched over what felt like several seconds. She couldn’t speak, and Quinn’s eyes never left Mia’s.

She wanted him to look at her. But she was terrified of the confirmation she would see there.

Quinn finally spoke. “I’m so sorry, Miranda.”

As her gaze fluttered to his, her lower lip trembled. She said nothing and turned her gaze back to her dead daughter.

He squeezed her shoulder gently before he left, saying something to the two officers that she couldn’t focus on.

Her thoughts were swimming. Tightness formed in her throat. She was trembling from head to toe. From the adrenaline, from the sheer panic of watching the life of the child she loved draining away.

Tears fell unbidden down her cheeks.

As she brought Mia gently into her arms, Miranda was no longer able to hold back the agonizing sob that tore from her chest.

***

The hotel phone rang, startling her awake.

A part of her wanted to turn and answer, but mostly she wanted to stay asleep.

She moaned and burrowed into her pillow, trying and failing to block out the ringing.

Then she finally reached over to her nightstand to grab the receiver, toppling over four mini bottles of hard liquor in the process.

“What?” she snapped into the phone.

“Good morning, Ms. Hastings. This is Taylor from the front desk with your 6:30 a.m. wake-up call, and a reminder that breakfast is being served and ends at 9:30 a.m.

“Give me a call here at the front desk if you have any questions.”

She scowled at the receiver. “Thank you.” She hung up and sat up gingerly, her head pounding as her stomach did a flip-flop, no doubt from the heavy drinking the night before.

Miranda clambered out of bed and searched for a bottle of water. Her throat was so dry she couldn’t swallow. Finding none, she staggered toward the mini fridge and opened it.

She found one.

Turning around, she closed one eye, trying to find the aspirin. Her double vision slowly subsided, and she spotted the bottle on the nightstand, next to her phone.

She opened the bottle and took two tablets. The water was cold and refreshing.

A ping from her calendar announced an appointment.

Oh right, Captain Westbrook. She had her first interview with the Manhattan police department this morning. Six months had passed since her world was shattered.

Six long, agonizing months since she’d heard her daughter laugh, seen her smile, read her a story, or given her a cuddle.

Despite the assistance of other law enforcement agencies, the investigation came to an apparent dead end.

There were no witnesses, no unaccounted-for fingerprints, no murder weapon, and no suspects. The specific motive for Mia and Brooke’s murder was still unknown.

She stumbled into the bathroom, holding herself up by the sink. Her eyes were tired and dark, her skin flushed.

She’d had trouble sleeping since that horrid night. The doctor suggested she was having a post-traumatic reaction to the stress of her daughter’s murder. It made sense and sounded logical.

She’d nodded. The doctor had given her a prescription for sleeping pills, but Miranda never bothered to fill it.

Showered, and dressed professionally for the interview, she headed out to the foyer.

Taylor rounded the front desk when she meandered in. He was only a couple of inches taller than her. He was dressed in a simple collared shirt with the hotel’s small emblem and dark pants.

His eyes were an odd shade of silvery gray, and his dark hair was thinning, but he attempted to hide it with an intricate comb-over—something Miranda had always found hilarious.

Judging by his face, he didn’t look that old, maybe in his mid-forties, and Miranda guessed he had actually been quite handsome in his younger days.

Except for the ridiculous comb-over, he wasn’t so bad-looking.

“Good morning, Ms. Hastings,” he said.

“Morning. And you can call me Miranda.”

“Miranda.” He smiled. “Are you ready for your interview this morning?”

“I’m as ready as I’m ever gonna be.”

He smiled. “Did you sleep?”

“Not very well.”

She needed tea and headed for the machine.

“Nerves getting the better of you, huh?”

So it begins…~

“No. That’s not it. I’m fairly confident this interview will go smoothly.” She made herself some tea and sliced a bagel before popping it into the toaster.

“That’s great. I wish you the best of luck.”

She nodded and then turned to meet his gaze. “Hey, Taylor, can I ask you for a favor?”

“Anything, ma’am.”

“Could you have someone restock the mini fridge in my room?”

He nodded. “Certainly, ma’am. I’ll send someone right away.”

“Thank you.”

Miranda grabbed her bagel out of the toaster and headed out the door to her interview.

She pulled up to her destination and turned off the ignition. It was an eight-story office building, all brick and windows, with “17th PRECINCT” written in steel over the glass front doors.

It was a quarter to nine when she arrived. Good, not late. She walked into the narrow—and frankly unappealing—yellow lobby.

She stopped at the floor and department listing, wondering which floor Captain Westbrook’s office was located.

“You look a little lost,” a voice says, startling her.

Miranda spun around and came face-to-face with an imposing man about her age with bronze skin and hazel eyes.

His dark brown mane was cut short around the back and sides, blending into the top.

He sported an NYPD badge around his neck, which hung from a slim silver chain that dangled over his black leather jacket.

“That obvious, huh?” Miranda giggled nervously, rubbing the back of her neck.

“Oh, yeah.” He smiled toothily.

“Detective…?”

“Kayser,” he finished.

“Detective Kayser,” she said. “I’m actually looking for Captain Westbrook’s office. I have a nine o’clock appointment with him, and I’m cutting it rather close.

“You mind pinpointing me in the right direction?”

“I can take you. I’m actually heading up that way right now.”

“Great. Thank you.”

They came to a stop in front of the elevator. Miranda cringed. She cleared her throat and pointed to the stairwell. “Uh, you mind if we take the stairs?”

He glanced at her, arching a brow while his long index finger pressed the button, summoning the elevator.

“The elevator’s faster,” he said. “And besides, maintenance is replacing a few light fixtures in the stairwell. It’s best if we take the elevator.”

She swallowed hard. “Great. Elevator it is.”

The doors slid open, revealing an empty cab. Thank God. Officer Kayser and Miranda stepped into the elevator. Suddenly, her breathing altered as her heart raced.

His head turned fractionally toward her, his hazel eyes brimming with concern.

“You know, I kinda feel like an asshole right now,” he murmured. “That’s why you insisted on taking the stairs. You’re afraid of elevators.”

“Not just elevators,” she said. “I have a fear of small spaces in general.”

“So you’re claustrophobic,”

Gazing at him, she shrugged, embarrassed.

She hated enclosed spaces. Over the years it seems to come and go. Recently, though, it had gotten worse.

She had the fear instilled in her when she was a young child.

She had memories of being held down by adults and her father telling her to lie on the floor on a blanket with her arms to her sides before he rolled her up in the blanket.

When she started going crazy, the rest of her family laughed at her and thought it was very amusing until her mother stepped in and ended it.

Ever since then she tried to avoid situations that triggered it.

“You’re completely safe. It’s only temporary.” Kayser interrupted her thoughts. “Take a deep breath in for four seconds, then let it out for four seconds, and repeat.”

Her lungs dragged in a hasty breath.

“Are you here for the job opening?”

She appreciated the normal conversation. It calmed her a bit. She nodded.

“Cool.”

The doors opened to their floor. She practically bolted from the elevator, gulping in a deep breath of fresh air.

She glanced briefly at Detective Kayser, and he was staring at her.

“Err…thanks for that,” she murmured, embarrassed.

“Don’t mention it,” he said. “Captain Westbrook’s office is this way.” He pointed to a small door, then led her on down through the bullpen and to a door at the end.

He knocked swiftly a couple times before opening the door. “Captain, your nine o’clock is here.”

“Thank you, Kayser. Send her in.” His voice was polite and professional.

“Good day, and good luck to you, ma’am.” Kayser smiled, his eyes crinkling, as they shook hands.

“Thank you for all your help, detective.”

“The pleasure’s been all mine,” he said, polite as ever, as he pushed open the door, standing aside to allow her in before shutting the door softly behind her.

Captain Westbrook looked over what appeared to be her resume from behind his desk in a well-worn, dark burgundy leather chair.

Miranda suspected he was in his mid-fifties from his thick, gleaming silver hair, carefully styled into place.

His desk, made of burnished mahogany, was situated at the back of the office near the window but faced outward toward the room.

There were matching mahogany bookcases along one wall covering almost its entire length, and the shelves were stacked with volumes of criminal justice books.

Captain Westbrook’s criminal justice degree, along with many of the awards he’d earned throughout his career, hung framed on the wall behind his desk.

There were also pictures of him with his wife that were a little outdated and recent pictures of him with his children and grandchildren.

As she approached him, he stood and gazed at her with warm, light blue eyes.

“Miranda Hastings, I’m Reid Westbrook, the captain here at 17th Precinct, and I’m very pleased to meet you,” he said as he shook her hand. “Did you have any problems finding the place?”

“No, I’ve been staying at the Lotte New York Palace.”

“Oh, not far from the precinct at all then. Please, take a seat.”

***

“I’m never gonna catch up.” Jordan Barnes, a detective for the 17th Precinct, closed her eyes in frustration and ran her hand through her lustrous black hair.

It was woven into thin braids that hung to the middle of her back.

“For what it’s worth, the captain is interviewing someone in his office as we speak,” Kayser said and sat down at the desk opposite her.

“He is?” The excitement in her voice was palpable.

He turned to his sleek computer and tapped in his password on the login screen.

“Yep. She’s a real cutie too.”

She rolled her eyes. “Well, hopefully she gets the job. We could use another female on the team. It’s tiring dealing with you and Ryan every day.”

She paused. “And speaking of Ryan, where is he?”

“I got a text from him when I pulled up,” he said. “He’s running late, as per usual.”

Barnes sighed heavily. “That son of a—” she said. “He’s supposed to help us finish up this paperwork, not push it all on us.”

Kayser shrugged. “You know Ryan—he hates paperwork.”

“Oh, don’t you defend him because he’s your best friend,” she said, then tossed a file on his desk. “Get to it.”

“All right, all right, I’m going. No need to be all bossy.”

***

“You have an impressive success rating, and your supervisor speaks very highly of you. But what I cannot seem to understand is why you would want to apply here.

“With this type of resume you could apply just about anywhere.”

“I moved away from D.C. to New York in the hope of a fresh start. I was hoping you could provide that for me with this position,” she said honestly.

He was silent for a moment. “I think you’ll be a valuable asset to the department,” he said.

“However, if you want to continue wearing a badge and carry in this department, or wherever else you decide to seek employment in law enforcement, you’re required to see the department’s psychologist.”

She let out a shocked laugh and rubbed her forehead. Great. This is just fucking great. No matter what I do. No matter where I go, it’s all the same. There is no escaping this crap.

“I know that’s probably not what you want to hear,” he said. “But as part of the hiring process I had a background check conducted on you. I know about your daughter’s murder.

“I cannot imagine the pain you are going through, but those sessions are a condition of you being allowed back in the field.”

She released a heavy sigh. She hated counseling. She hated shrinks.

Everything about them was a turnoff: black leather couches, plastic plants, and the glass desk. Great way to make your patients feel comfortable.

The first psychologist her family doctor recommended was a real quack.

Right away he asked her about her daughter, and then he actually tried to make her draw the color of her feelings with crayons and a sketch pad.

When she said he must be kidding, he told her she was resisting her feelings and needed to “embrace the process.”

She walked out. Spent most of the session wondering if she should kill him or herself.

What do I do? What do I do, Mia? What would you want me to do? She thought as she brushed her fingers of her daughter’s picture on her keychain.

“Ms. Hastings?”

“Please, call me Miranda.”

“Miranda,” he said softly. “Dr. Bennett takes her job as a psychologist very seriously and only wants to help police officers through the most traumatic events in their lives as much as possible.”

She scoffed and rolled her eyes. “Yeah, the last shrink I went to said the exact same thing. They can’t help someone like me, Captain.”

“How do you know? You’ve walked out on each of your psychologists after the first session,” he said.

“Give Dr. Bennett a chance. If you don’t like it after the first two sessions, don’t like her, then you’re free to quit and never look back.”

Miranda was silent, contemplating his proposal.

“What else do you have to lose?”