Ten minutes later, the gravel in the driveway crunched under the tires of a county patrol car.
Officer Boyd got out of the driver’s seat, adjusting her utility belt with a slow, practiced motion of her hand. She was a tall woman with her dark hair pulled back into a tight bun, her expression entirely unreadable.
“You the one who called about the child?” she asked, walking up the concrete steps.
“My daughter, Mia,” I said, my thumb instantly finding my silver wedding ring and twisting it around my knuckle. “She is three. She was supposed to be here with her grandmother, Lorraine.”
Officer Boyd stopped on the top step and looked down at the porch floor. She did not bend over, but her eyes locked onto the broken doll resting against the brick molding of the house.
“Is this your daughter’s toy?” she asked.
