Mitch

*He knew who she was instantly. He recognized the curves of her face, the plump lips, the colour of strawberries and twice as sweet, her eyes, once deep pools of blue that sparkled when she smiled, now dull and grey, reflecting the flashing blue and red lights back at him.*

Mitch Turner took a drag on his cigarette. The night was warm and muggy, but his shoulder were draped with heavy cold.

*Her name was Emily. "Emmy-Lee" as she said it, in her mild accent. She was French, most likely Québécois, but he never asked, and she never told. She was younger than him by a few years, maybe twenty to his own twenty-seven years.*

Mitch knelt down, and with a trembling hand, closed her eyes. She was cold. Too cold. Dead cold.

*He'd first met her in the red lights. From his first day on the force, they said never go in alone. He found her in an alley, naked, beaten half to death.*

"How did you find her?" Mitch asked, voice ragged.

"Just like this." The old shopkeep replied. "I heard gunshots, and came running out to find her like this."

"See anyone?"

"No sir."

*He'd taken her home from the hospital. She was so small and vulnerable in his jacket.*

Mitch stood, shoving his hands into his pockets. The cigarette twitched as he clamped his jaw.

*They talked for hours. Mitch about being a cop, his dad, Emily about her travels up and down the West Coast, her dreams to see the rest of the world. So full of hope. So radiant. Too young, too innocent to be a prostitute.*

Mitch's radio crackled in the car, but he didn't move, didn't dare take his eyes off her, not wanting to forget a moment spent with her.

*They made love the third night. Her hair shone the purest, summer yellow. Her body was firm and lithe, long legs tanned a beautiful honey gold under the Baja sun. He loved her, and she loved him.*

*Now she was gone.*

"I'll get the bastards, Emily. I swear I will."