By Jada Williams
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TAMPA, Florida (WFTS) — Miracle Cromwell was born at a red light.
Her mother, Loretta Cromwell, was in a van on the way to the hospital when Miracle arrived. It happened right beside the University of Florida campus in Gainesville. A college band was playing nearby. Police stopped traffic. A nursing student on a moped pushed past officers to help. When Miracle came into the world, the light turned green, and the band started up again, filling the air as if the world itself was announcing her arrival.
It was the kind of entrance that felt like it meant something.
“She was a miracle baby,” Loretta said. “So I said, no, she’s got to be Miracle. And we agreed with it, and went there.”
Loretta smiled when she said it. The smile peeked through tears, the way it does now whenever a memory of Miracle surfaces; beautiful, and then heavy.
Miracle Cromwell, 16, was shot and killed in Tampa in January. Freshly 16, her family says, only a couple of months into being 16. A child who had just begun to become who she was going to be.
Tampa police have identified another teenager, Brandon Brown, as the suspect in her death and obtained a warrant for his arrest. He remains at large.
Now, Miracle’s family is speaking with Tampa Bay 28 reporter Jada Williams, sitting down to share who she was, what her loss has done to them, and why they are still waiting for the justice they say she deserves. What follows is their story, in their own words, told through grief that is still raw and still fresh and still, as Loretta put it, eating at them every single day.
‘She kept everybody together’
To understand what Miracle’s family lost, you have to understand what she was to them.
She was not just a daughter or a sister. She was the one who held the room together. The one who made people laugh when they did not want to. The one who told you to stop crying and keep going, even when she was the one who needed comforting.
Her older sister, Onia Merrick, described Miracle as bold, fearless, deeply loyal, and completely, unapologetically herself.
“She kept everybody together,” Merrick said.
Merrick said Miracle did not shrink for anyone. She moved through the world on her own terms and expected the people she loved to do the same. She was the kind of person who called things exactly as she saw them, no filter, no hesitation.
“She was strong. She was bold. She didn’t care. She got out there and did it no matter what nobody else said,” Merrick said.
And when grief threatened to pull the family under, Miracle would have been the first one to push back against it: bluntly, lovingly, and without apology.
“She wouldn’t want us to cry. She won’t want us to do none of that. She’ll want us to live life as it was normal,” Merrick said.
Merrick said she can still hear her sister’s voice when the sadness gets too heavy to carry.
“I could cry, but I can’t, because it’s just like, I know Miracle. She wouldn’t want us to be like this. She wouldn’t want us to be sad,” Merrick said. “I can hear her now — ‘Bro, what you doing? What you crying for? You don’t need to be crying.'”
She laughed softly when she said it. Then her eyes filled.
“She’d be like, ‘Y’all doing too much. Y’all need to stop all that crying.’ But she doesn’t understand, like, she kept everybody together.”
Born at a red light
Miracle was the sibling the whole family watched come into the world. Merrick said all of the older children were in the van when Miracle was born. They were all piled in together, told only that the baby was coming and to get in the car.
“We was all in the car on the way to the hospital,” Merrick said. “All we know is mama told us we all was told to get in the car. Baby was coming. We all get in the car.”
What happened next is a story the family has told many times. It is also a story that, in the weeks since Miracle’s death, has become something else entirely: a reminder of how extraordinary her life was from the very first moment.
Merrick was 7 years old at the time. She said she has never forgotten a single detail.
“We was on the way to the hospital, and we was at a red light, and we was beside the college in Gainesville, and the band was practicing while I was at the light,” Merrick said. “But then all of a sudden it stopped. The road was completely quiet. And once Miracle came out, the light turned green. The band… I’m telling you, the band had just gone. It’s going and going and going.”
Despite being only seven, she said she remembers it vividly.
“I can still remember this as if it happened yesterday, because it was just like, I ain’t never seen this before,” Merrick said. “I was not expecting to see that. I was thinking that we was gonna go to the hospital. We’d had to wait to go see her.”
Their father stopped the van. A nursing student on a moped arrived at the scene after police stopped traffic. Merrick said she still remembers the moment the student pushed past the officers to help.
“She came on the bike. Police was telling her she couldn’t come. And she was like, ‘No, I’m a medical student. I’m in school for this.’ And he was like, ‘Okay, well, come on,'” Merrick said. “And she came and she helped. She helped mama with Miracle.”
Loretta remembered that night with the same clarity and the same ache.
“Back on that day, it was a beautiful day, because I felt every pain,” Loretta said. “I smile of joy, because at that moment, it was joy.”
She said Miracle made the newspaper when she was born. Merrick said that he always felt like a sign. A sign that the world already knew who Miracle was going to be.
“Who, you know, do that? In the newspaper when they born?” Merrick said. “The whole world knew about her birth. And it’s just like, now people see the same little girl that was just born in the car. Gone. So it just, it’s unfair.”
Loretta said she will carry that night with her forever. Now she also carries the weight of what came after it.
“I will never forget that day that she came out,” Loretta said. “And I just dread the day now that I can’t see her anymore. I can’t be around her anymore.”
A mother’s grief
Loretta Cromwell sat down with Williams to talk about her daughter with the kind of composure that only comes from someone who has been holding themselves together by sheer force of will. For her other children, for her own sanity, for the simple reason that there is no other choice.
But the grief is always there. It follows her into every room, every errand, every ordinary moment that used to be ordinary and now is not.
“It’s been tough. It’s been tough,” Loretta said. “You know, it’s hard to sleep. It’s hard to go certain places, because every time I go certain places I’m seeing her or something we done together.”
roams free
Miracle Cromwell’s family speaks out about the Tampa teen’s death and the search for suspect Brandon Brown, who remains at large. Miracle Cromwell’s mom demands answers as suspected killer roams free Miracle Cromwell case By: Jada Williams Posted 7:15 PM, Mar 12, 2026 and last updated 7:20 PM, Mar 12, 2026 TAMPA, Fla. — Miracle Cromwell was born at a red light.
Her mother, Loretta Cromwell, was in a van on the way to the hospital when Miracle arrived. It happened right beside the University of Florida campus in Gainesville. A college band was playing nearby. Police stopped traffic. A nursing student on a moped pushed past officers to help. When Miracle came into the world, the light turned green, and the band started up again, filling the air as if the world itself was announcing her arrival.
It was the kind of entrance that felt like it meant something.
“She was a miracle baby,” Loretta said. “So I said, no, she’s got to be Miracle. And we agreed with it, and went there.”
WATCH: ‘A piece of me is just gone’: Miracle Cromwell’s mom demands answers as suspected killer roams free
Loretta smiled when she said it. The smile peeked through tears, the way it does now whenever a memory of Miracle surfaces; beautiful, and then heavy.
Miracle Cromwell, 16, was shot and killed in Tampa in January. Freshly 16, her family says, only a couple of months into being 16. A child who had just begun to become who she was going to be.
Tampa police have identified another teenager, Brandon Brown, as the suspect in her death and obtained a warrant for his arrest. He remains at large.
Now, Miracle’s family is speaking with Tampa Bay 28 reporter Jada Williams, sitting down to share who she was, what her loss has done to them, and why they are still waiting for the justice they say she deserves. What follows is their story, in their own words, told through grief that is still raw and still fresh and still, as Loretta put it, eating at them every single day.
‘She kept everybody together’ To understand what Miracle’s family lost, you have to understand what she was to them.
She was not just a daughter or a sister. She was the one who held the room together. The one who made people laugh when they did not want to. The one who told you to stop crying and keep going, even when she was the one who needed comforting.
Her older sister, Onia Merrick, described Miracle as bold, fearless, deeply loyal, and completely, unapologetically herself.
“She kept everybody together,” Merrick said.
Merrick said Miracle did not shrink for anyone. She moved through the world on her own terms and expected the people she loved to do the same. She was the kind of person who called things exactly as she saw them, no filter, no hesitation.
“She was strong. She was bold. She didn’t care. She got out there and did it no matter what nobody else said,” Merrick said.
And when grief threatened to pull the family under, Miracle would have been the first one to push back against it: bluntly, lovingly, and without apology.
“She wouldn’t want us to cry. She won’t want us to do none of that. She’ll want us to live life as it was normal,” Merrick said.
Merrick said she can still hear her sister’s voice when the sadness gets too heavy to carry.
“I could cry, but I can’t, because it’s just like, I know Miracle. She wouldn’t want us to be like this. She wouldn’t want us to be sad,” Merrick said. “I can hear her now — ‘Bro, what you doing? What you crying for? You don’t need to be crying.'”
She laughed softly when she said it. Then her eyes filled.
“She’d be like, ‘Y’all doing too much. Y’all need to stop all that crying.’ But she doesn’t understand, like, she kept everybody together.”
Born at a red light Miracle was the sibling the whole family watched come into the world. Merrick said all of the older children were in the van when Miracle was born. They were all piled in together, told only that the baby was coming and to get in the car.
“We was all in the car on the way to the hospital,” Merrick said. “All we know is mama told us we all was told to get in the car. Baby was coming. We all get in the car.”
What happened next is a story the family has told many times. It is also a story that, in the weeks since Miracle’s death, has become something else entirely: a reminder of how extraordinary her life was from the very first moment.
Merrick was 7 years old at the time. She said she has never forgotten a single detail.
“We was on the way to the hospital, and we was at a red light, and we was beside the college in Gainesville, and the band was practicing while I was at the light,” Merrick said. “But then all of a sudden it stopped. The road was completely quiet. And once Miracle came out, the light turned green. The band… I’m telling you, the band had just gone. It’s going and going and going.”
Despite being only seven, she said she remembers it vividly.
“I can still remember this as if it happened yesterday, because it was just like, I ain’t never seen this before,” Merrick said. “I was not expecting to see that. I was thinking that we was gonna go to the hospital. We’d had to wait to go see her.”
Their father stopped the van. A nursing student on a moped arrived at the scene after police stopped traffic. Merrick said she still remembers the moment the student pushed past the officers to help.
“She came on the bike. Police was telling her she couldn’t come. And she was like, ‘No, I’m a medical student. I’m in school for this.’ And he was like, ‘Okay, well, come on,'” Merrick said. “And she came and she helped. She helped mama with Miracle.”
Loretta remembered that night with the same clarity and the same ache.
“Back on that day, it was a beautiful day, because I felt every pain,” Loretta said. “I smile of joy, because at that moment, it was joy.”
She said Miracle made the newspaper when she was born. Merrick said that he always felt like a sign. A sign that the world already knew who Miracle was going to be.
“Who, you know, do that? In the newspaper when they born?” Merrick said. “The whole world knew about her birth. And it’s just like, now people see the same little girl that was just born in the car. Gone. So it just, it’s unfair.”
Loretta said she will carry that night with her forever. Now she also carries the weight of what came after it.
“I will never forget that day that she came out,” Loretta said. “And I just dread the day now that I can’t see her anymore. I can’t be around her anymore.”
A mother’s grief Loretta Cromwell sat down with Williams to talk about her daughter with the kind of composure that only comes from someone who has been holding themselves together by sheer force of will. For her other children, for her own sanity, for the simple reason that there is no other choice.
But the grief is always there. It follows her into every room, every errand, every ordinary moment that used to be ordinary and now is not.
“It’s been tough. It’s been tough,” Loretta said. “You know, it’s hard to sleep. It’s hard to go certain places, because every time I go certain places I’m seeing her or something we done together.”
She described Miracle as helpful, loyal, and deeply family-oriented. Loretta says in the last months of her life, the teenager had made a habit of walking her mother to work and being at the door when she came home.
“The last couple months, she used to come up to my job every day. ‘Mommy, I’m gonna go with you. I’m gonna make sure you okay. Make sure you get home,'” Loretta said. “We walking up the street, going home every day. Then when I get into an Uber, she’ll be out to the car. She grabs the bags, takes them in the house.”
The evening before Miracle died, she had cooked for the family.
“The day of the incident, she had just cooked,” Loretta said. “Little did I know I was going to see her when I got home. I was at work.”
That night, Loretta texted Miracle to come home. Something that every mother can relate to. It was the last message she ever sent her daughter.
Then came the call.
“Maybe an hour, maybe two, I get that call,” Loretta said. “I didn’t go to sleep. I didn’t eat for two days.”
She said the numbness that set in that night has never fully lifted.
“I was numb. I’m still numb,” Loretta said. “But I have to be strong for my other kids.”
Loretta said the loss has stolen not just Miracle herself, but every future moment she had imagined for her daughter.
“I can’t even see her get her first job. I can’t see her graduate. I can’t see anything of that. Her first child. I can’t see none of that anymore,” Loretta said. “It’s like it was robbed from me. It’s like robbed from me.”
She said the pain is something that exists in a category only a mother can fully understand.
“From the time you had her, you nurse her all the way to now. Till that tragic day comes, you get that phone call, and you like, wow,” Loretta said. “You can’t see anymore. Can’t talk to her anymore. She can’t call me mom. Mom, send me a dollar. Mom, I want to get an Uber. Mom, I want to go home. Could I go to my friend’s house? I can’t hear that anymore.”
She paused for a long moment, fighting through tears.
“It’s like a piece of me just gone,” Loretta said. “She brought joy. You know, she brought joy.”
‘I just really don’t have a lot of words right now’
There are moments in grief that go beyond words. Loretta and Merrick both reached them during this conversation. Moments where the sentences trailed off, where the silence said more than anything that could be spoken.
Merrick showed Williams a small space the family has created for Miracle. It’s a collection of her things returned to them after the crime, kept together as a way of keeping her close. Her bracelet. Her necklace. Her earrings. Her nose piercing. Plus a picture made in her memory.
“This is, it’s like her little space, her little secret space that we have for her,” Merrick said. “This is the stuff that she had on her.”
The family is having a stuffed bear made from one of Miracle’s jackets so they can place her jewelry on it and, in some small way, feel like she is still there.
There is also a plant growing outside for Miracle. Another one inside.
Loretta said she had a room set up for Miracle. Plans made. Things she was set to do.
Merrick said the last time she saw Miracle, her sister had been begging her to do her lashes.
“Last time I seen her, she begging me to do her lashes. ‘Can’t do my lashes? Can’t do my lashes?'” Merrick said. “Typical sister.”
She said Miracle wanted her to sleep with her that night, the way little sisters do. Merrick did not. She left while everyone was sleeping. But before she walked out, she stopped and looked at her sister one last time.
“Before I left, I just was looking at her,” Merrick said. “I don’t know. I just was looking at her like praying for her.”
She said she still does not fully have words for what she feels.
“I just really don’t have a lot of words right now,” Merrick said. “I just still in denial. I’ve just been thinking she gonna call and be like, come get me.”
The last time they saw her
The last time Merrick saw Miracle alive was at Christmas, just weeks before the shooting. Miracle had pushed hard for her sister to make the trip down.
“She was like, ‘You need to come down here, bro. You need to come down here. You don’t never,'” Merrick said. “I told mom, I said I would have felt bad within myself if I didn’t come.”
Merrick said she is grateful every day for having gone.
Not long after Christmas, Miracle called her sister crying. She said people were bothering her. Merrick was far away and felt the distance like a weight.
“I was already feeling bad within myself because I’m just so far away, and ain’t nothing I could do,” Merrick said. “But I told her, I said, ‘Miracle, it’s okay. You know, everybody is not gonna be for you. Everybody’s not gonna like you.'”
It was not even a full month between that Christmas visit and the day Miracle was killed.
“I had just talked to her on the phone,” Merrick said. “She called me crying, said people would mess with her.”
Loretta said her last real conversation with Miracle was one she holds onto.
“She told me, ‘Mom, I’m gonna go back to school. I’m gonna just go ahead and graduate. I ain’t gonna have no friends,'” Loretta said. “I said, ‘No, I’m not gonna be glad you don’t have no friends, but I want you to focus.’ And that’s what we talked about. That was our conversation.”
The night everything changed
Loretta was at work the night Miracle was killed. She said she did not know what was happening. She texted her daughter to come home. She waited.
“If the young lady there wasn’t on the phone, I wouldn’t know nothing,” Loretta said. “I didn’t know anything. I didn’t know what was going on or what was taking place.”
Then came the call that changed everything.
“Maybe an hour, maybe two, I get that call,” Loretta said. “I didn’t go to sleep. I didn’t eat for two days. It tried to make me eat. It tried to make me sleep. I couldn’t do nothing. I just numb.”
She said she is still numb. Still moving through days that do not feel real.
Miracle’s youngest sibling is only 6-years-old.
“He cries for her too,” Loretta said. “When he cries, sometimes I don’t have words for him.”
She said her 11-year-old has been doing as well as can be expected, but the weight of not having answers for her children is something she carries heavily.
“Me, being a mom, I should have been able to have answers for them,” Loretta said. “I just don’t know what to say in that aspect.”
Waiting for justice
On January 22, Miracle Cromwell was killed. Three days later, on January 25, Loretta reached out and shared the name and photos of the person she believed was responsible. On February 19, the Tampa Police Department publicly identified Brandon Brown as the suspect.
Now it is March. Brown has still not been found.
“I’m not understanding. I’m not understanding,” Loretta said.
She said the wait has made an already unbearable grief harder to carry because every day that passes without an arrest is another day Miracle does not have justice.
“He’s out. I don’t know what he’s doing. He might be having a good time. He may not be having a good time, but I can’t do that with her anymore,” Loretta said. “She don’t have that anymore. She can’t have a good time no more. She can’t be on her phone anymore. She can’t do none of that no more.”
Loretta said she does not know Brandon Brown. She does not know what to say to him or about him. But she has one question that sits at the center of everything.
“I just want to know why,” Loretta said. “I just want to know why. Why did it have to lead up to that.”
The unknown and waiting is delaying her grieving process.
“I’m just broken. I’m just into pieces right now, and maybe I get some peace when it all comes together,” Loretta said. “I have a little peace, but right now I don’t have any peace.”
Tampa Police Department Major Eric DeFelice said investigators moved quickly after the shooting and identified Brown as a suspect within hours of the crime.
“It happened, I believe it was 2 a.m., and then by 11 p.m. that same day, he was the suspect, and we had the warrant,” DeFelice said.
He said the department is actively searching for Brown and is calling on the community to help bring him in.
“We want to make sure that we bring him to justice,” DeFelice said.
DeFelice said Brown acted alone and is the sole focus of the investigation.
“He is the main person that we are looking for, just him,” DeFelice said.
He said the investigation pointed to a pattern that Tampa police see far too often: children getting access to firearms with devastating consequences.
“It just seems to be that kids playing with guns and bad things happen, and that’s the message that we try to push out here about gun safety,” DeFelice said. “When you see something, say something. Guns and kids don’t mix well, and bad things do happen when they come into the wrong hands.”
DeFelice said the problem is widespread and often plays out publicly on social media before tragedy strikes.
“Kids are getting a hold of these. That’s why it’s so important that if you have a gun, that you are a responsible gun owner and that you lock it up, don’t leave it in your car unlocked, because that’s when, unfortunately, kids have easy access to it,” DeFelice said. “They get a hold of it, they show off with it, they put it on social media. And then tragic things do come out of it.”
He extended condolences to Miracle’s family on behalf of the department.
“First of all, our hearts go out to the family. We stand with them while they deal with this tragic time. It is a terrible, terrible incident that took place,” DeFelice said. “We want to make sure that when we investigate, that we uncover everything that we can to make sure we have the right person and hold them accountable.”
DeFelice urged anyone with information on Brown’s whereabouts to come forward immediately.
“If you’ve seen something, then let us know. We work all the time with the community to try to help us and point us in the right direction,” DeFelice said. “If they have any tip whatsoever, they can call us, and if they want to remain anonymous, they can contact Crime Stoppers.”
‘She ain’t gotta fight no more’
In the weeks since Miracle’s death, Merrick said she has worked hard to find a place to put her grief. Not to bury it or pretend it is not there, but to hold it in a way that lets her keep going. The way Miracle would have wanted her to.
She said she has found something close to peace in one specific thought: that her sister no longer has to struggle. No longer has to fight. No longer has to call her big sister crying because someone is bothering her.
“I came to peace with it, because I know she don’t have to fight. She don’t have to do this, she don’t have to do that,” Merrick said. “It hurts that I can’t see her, but she don’t have to go through this no more.”
She said Miracle had felt alone sometimes, like she did not fully understand how many lives she had touched or how much she mattered to the people around her.
“She impacted a lot of people in a positive way. She just don’t know that. She didn’t know that,” Merrick said. “She felt like she was by herself. She don’t realize a lot.”
Merrick said that is part of why keeping Miracle’s name alive matters so much, because Miracle deserves to know, even now, that she was never as alone as she sometimes felt. Her sister has taken it upon herself to carry the strength that Miracle always carried — because someone has to, and because it is the most honest tribute she can offer her sister.
“My girl was strong. So we got to be strong for her. Somebody got to be strong like she was. Everybody can’t be down. So I took that part,” Merrick said.
She said she believes Miracle is still with them. Not physically, but in every moment of strength the family finds, in every step forward they manage to take.
“She might not be here physically, but she here spiritually. She here with us right now. She see what we doing now. She giving us the strength. Because if we couldn’t do it, God wouldn’t have gave us this,” Merrick said. “He give his toughest battles to his strongest soldiers.”
A mother defending herself
In the weeks since Miracle’s death, Loretta said she has faced something that has added to her grief in ways she did not expect: public criticism from people who have questioned her as a mother, people who have voiced opinions about where Miracle was that night and why.
She pushed back on it firmly and without hesitation.
“They can voice their opinion about me all day, it’s okay,” Loretta said. “Some wonder why she was out late and all this stuff. Listen. You can be asleep. You could be at work. Kids gonna do what they want, and you know what they feel like at that time.”
She said she was the kind of mother who made it her business to know who her children were around.
“If the parents didn’t know me, they know me. I’m gonna interact with them. I’m gonna talk with them. I’m gonna say, hey, even if their kids come to my house, I’m gonna let them know ‘Hey, look, did you talk to your mom? Did you talk to your guardian?” Loretta said. “I don’t know, let nobody be to my house unless I know who the parents are, or talk to the parent.”
She said she taught Miracle right. She said Miracle knew better. And she said that does not make what happened her fault or Miracle’s.
“She’s a teenager. But for us, me being a mother, I think I did a really good job as a mother, and I think I’m still doing a good job.”
Loretta has six other children: four grown and three younger ones. Despite her grief, she is still showing up for all of them every single day.
She said the people who want to judge her do not know her. They do not know what she deals with on a daily basis. And ultimately, she said, their opinions are not what matters.
“People look at you, people voice their opinion about you, and they don’t even know you. They don’t even know nothing about me,” Loretta said. “God sees everything and knows all.”
She said if anyone truly believed something was wrong, they had the opportunity to step up and help, and they did not.
Why she decided to speak
Loretta said she did not come forward immediately. She needed time to grieve, time to let Miracle rest, time to find enough steadiness within herself to speak at all.
She said she reached out because she felt it was time, and because she felt a connection that made her feel safe enough to tell her story.
“I felt like it was time. I had to have time to grieve more. I had to have time to get my baby to rest. I had to make sure that I had a little stability enough to be able to talk,” Loretta said. “I felt like I needed to get out and say something, because I’m the mama. Can’t nobody tell the story like me. Nobody can feel like me.”
She said she prays every night for peace, for strength, for the ability to keep going.
“I thank God for the support that he have put in my life. I thank God for the people that’s been there from day one when it happened,” Loretta said. “I don’t know. I probably been lost it.”
Finding a way forward
Loretta said she does not yet know exactly what the path forward looks like. She is still too close to the loss, still too deep inside the grief to see clearly where it leads. But she is trying.
“I’m going to start some grief counseling. Me and my kids both,” Loretta said. “Somebody who done experienced that level, and they can help us out, because it’s much needed right now.”
Merrick said she will keep going to see Miracle.
“We go see her this weekend. Put her flowers out there, put her some balloons, have a good time with her,” Merrick said. “Yes, it hurt. But she might not be here physically, but she always here with us. She’s never going to be forgotten. Never, never. That’s my girl.”
The family is also planning a memorial for Miracle.
“We’re setting up a memorial for her, for like the friends and family and the teachers and everybody that was able to make it to the funeral,” Merrick said. “We just gonna do a memorial for Miracle and just keep her name alive.”
“She had a whole life ahead of her,” Loretta said. “I can’t even see her get her first job. I can’t see her graduate. I can’t see anything of that.”
Anyone with information on Brandon Brown’s whereabouts is asked to contact the Tampa Police Department or call Crime Stoppers anonymously.
In the meantime, the Cromwell family is still dealing with expenses from this loss. If you would like to help the Cromwell family with burial expenses, you can click here for the GoFundMe.
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