Free A Blossom of Bright Light by Suzanne Chazin

scuffed counter, that made Adele feel the weight of their expectations and the sense that already, she’d failed.

Chapter 8
    T he Reillys’ house sat in the middle of a block of modest capes and split-levels all evenly laid out like a set of dominoes, all yellowing under the sodium glare of streetlights. Behind the pulled shades of picture windows, televisions flickered and dogs barked. People stumbled about taking out the trash, half hidden in the shadows of bushes hyper-pruned to the shape of cannonballs or Chinese takeout containers.
    It was not the sort of neighborhood where Vega expected to find a live-in nanny. He’d expected something more, well, upscale . Still, Dominga Flores was the best lead he had so far as a potential mother of Baby Mercy. According to Dr. Feldman’s records, she’d skipped her last three prenatal checkups and hadn’t been in to see him in almost six weeks. Her cell phone number—likely one of those pay-as-you-go varieties—was out of service. Her employers offered his best hope of tracking her down.
    Vega parked in the street and walked up to a front door with a plaque beside it. The family name was burnished into the plaque, the dot over the “i” replaced by a shamrock. The Gaelic words E RIN GO BRAGH were etched beneath. Vega smiled to himself. When he was a boy growing up in the South Bronx, every fire escape and bodega in his neighborhood sported a Puerto Rican flag, a symbol of pride that people outside his culture—particularly Anglos—tended to regard with suspicion. But really, how was this any different?
    A woman answered the door with a baby on her hip. She was dressed in oversized gray sweatpants and a sweatshirt with an assortment of pale splatters and stains across it. Her blond hair was carelessly gathered into a loose bun. Strands hung down the sides like she was a piece of corn in the process of being shucked. Vega wasn’t sure if she was the babysitter or the mom.
    â€œSorry to bother you, ma’am. My name is James Vega. I’m a detective with the county police.” Vega showed her his badge and ID. “I’m looking to talk to Mr. or Mrs. Reilly. Are either of them home?”
    â€œI’m Mrs. Reilly.” The baby fussed on her hip. A boy, judging by the square heft of his body. He had blue eyes and a pale down of wispy hair that stood straight up on his head. He was making those low-level whines that promised to detonate at any moment. It was a long time ago now, but Vega could still remember how he and Wendy were always handling Joy like a grenade with a pulled pin.
    â€œMay I come in?”
    â€œUm, sure.”
    Vega stepped in the doorway. A toddler ran past his feet with a push toy in hand—some sort of fire truck with bells and whistles. From the kitchen, he could hear a man’s voice trying to coax another child into eating one more bite of carrot. The child was screaming like the man was sticking needles into her flesh.
    â€œHave I got you at a bad time?” asked Vega.
    â€œActually, this is about as good as it gets.”
    She gestured to what Vega assumed was a living room on her left. It had no grown-up furniture, only a scattering of beanbags on the wall-to-wall beige carpet surrounded by piles of dolls, trucks, and blocks. On a single low table with padded corners sat a collection of sippy cups and spilled Cheerios. A flat-screen television blared cartoons.
    â€œHow many children do you have?” asked Vega.
    â€œThree. It’s looks like more, I know. But with my three, it always does.” She nodded to the baby on her hip. “C.J. is eight months. Brody, who just ran past, is two and a half, and my daughter, Kayla,” she gestured to the kitchen, “is five.”
    A big bear of a man with receding reddish-blond hair walked into the living room. He had the shell-shocked demeanor of a soldier just off the battlefield.
    â€œThis is my husband,