She lay face down in the horse stall among syringes and used condoms, her hair matted and sticky with blood. Monaghan sighed, knelt, snapping his gloves. The stench of unshoveled manure was making his eyes water.
“Need a tissue?”
Monaghan’s badge glinted as he bent over the girl’s body.
“Nah,” he sighed, pushing the girl’s hair to the side. A gold necklace gleamed. Monaghan stared, undid the clasp, pulling it free. A dirt-smeared locket dangled. Monaghan pried it, wincing. His own photo smiled back, arm around the girl’s shoulder.
“Oh god.” Monaghan gulped, blinked. “Sheila…my little girl…” he shuddered, heaving.
© Scriptor Obscura and Scriptor Obscura Writes, All Rights Reserved.
Written for Friday Fictioneers.