She wasn’t technically a Cold Case.

When they found August Brown’s body in the winter of 1992, frozen solid, everyone just assumed she’d died from exposure. She was 16 and wild. Her mother, Amara Brown, hardly knew what to do with her. She wouldn’t listen. She barely went to school. She came home when she wanted and was certainly not above stealing a few bucks for alcohol and weed from her mother’s purse.

The truth: there was really nothing anyone could do. Her father worked two jobs and was only ever home a few hours a day to sleep. Her mother’s evening shift at the local diner meant that the kids had to fend for themselves. As often happens, somebody had to slip through the cracks. In the Brown house, it was August. 

She fell in with the wrong crowd and seemingly overnight changed from the sweet, shy, slightly awkward bony little girl to a… demon. That was the only way Amara could describe the thing that took over her baby girl. Her firstborn. Her favorite.

Every morning for close to a year she sat alone at the dining room table, waiting for August to stumble in, wondering how long it’d be before she never came home again.

Ten months. It was ten months from the day Amara first smelled marijuana on August’s clothes until that knock on the door.

They’d found her, my August, frozen solid in the snow. All alone.

***

“Excuse me,” Amara said softly as another cop passed her by.

She’d thought long and hard about this. It had been 17 years since she lost August and while she knew there was no point opening such an old wound, she just… she just had to.

“Excuse me,” she said again a little louder this time as two lady cops, one white, one black, walked through the doors. They turned expectantly towards her.

“Can I help you,” the white one asked. Her blonde ponytail swayed softly as her head bounced to look Amara directly in the eyes.

“I…I…” she stammered. Her throat felt dry and tight as she tried to form the words. It’d been so long since she’d spoken about any of this that suddenly she wasn’t sure if she could do it.

“It’s ok,” the black one said softly, reaching out to lightly grasp her elbow and steer her into a chair at the closest desk. “Take your time.”

“I… My daughter Au-, my daughter,” she finished lamely, pushing a picture of August into the black cop’s hands.

It was Amara’s favorite. They took it when August was 10, at the local park. She had on a bright yellow dress with pink and white tulips. Her favorite flower.

“My name,” she ground out painfully, “is Amara Brown.” She could feel the tears building and welcomed the pressure, using it to spur her on. “And this is my daughter August.”

***

“I hate the ones with kids,” Detective Lilly Rush exhaled as she filled out a requisition form to exhume August Brown’s body.

“I hate the ones with mothers,” Detective Kat Miller said absentmindedly, staring at the crime scene photo of August Brown, her eyes jumping to the clutter of photographs Mrs. Brown had dumped on her desk.

“So what do you have?” Lieutenant Stillman boomed, snapping Miller out of her daze.

“August Brown, boss,” Rush began. “January 21, 1992, neighborhood kid… uh, Philip Stephens, found her behind a dumpster on State street. There were no signs of a struggle, no broken bones, nothing showed up in her blood work except some booze, twice the legal limit, and marijuana. M.E. listed the cause of death as exposure. Probably got high and laid down, not realizing how cold it was, it snowed and she just… slipped away in her sleep.”

“So what’s new?"

“Mother came in today,” Miller said, rising slowly from her desk, with a picture of August still unconsciously clutched in her hand. “She got a letter in the mail yesterday from a Kevin Weeks, one of August’s friends. He found God and wants to atone for his sins. He said…” she shifted the photographs to the side with her right hand and grabbed the letter. “He said he was with August the night she died. She was drunk and a little high, but definitely not messed up enough to just lay down and die. According to Kevin, last time he saw August she told him she was going home for coffee.”

“Mom said that was their ritual,” Rush interjected. “Every morning when she got back from her late shift, August would be up waiting for her with a pot of coffee. Girl time.”

“Well if she was going home to have coffee with her mother…” Stillman pondered.

“What stopped her from getting there,” Kat finished.

***

She gulped down the glass of water so fast her eyes started to leak.

“You ok mommy,” Veronica asked.

“Yea, I’m just…” She coughed loudly. “I’m just thirsty,” she finally croaked out. “My throat’s really… really dry.”

“Mmmm hmmm, sounds like you’re nervous to me,” Veronica said with enough attitude to make her mother pause and then… double over in laughter. And then groan in pain when her throat felt like it was being ripped to shreds. She coughed uncontrollably.

Veronica filled her mother’s water glass and pushed it across the counter with a worried expression on her face. Kat drank it gratefully.

“I’m fine, really,” Kat said soothingly, once she could breathe again, absently running her hand over her daughter’s soft hair. “Really.”

“He must be cute.”

“Finish your homework."

***

She’d wanted to drive her own car to the restaurant, but ADA Curtis Bell insisted on picking her up. Well, he’d just ignored her when she said, “I can drive you know,” and told her he’d be at her place at 7:30 sharp.

She reached to open the door, but he beat her to it. He held it open and ushered her in.

“I never pictured you for the chivalrous type,” she said, willing her body to ease gracefully, gracefully, into his car.

“Gimme half a chance and I just might surprise you,” he said before shutting the door and cutting off whatever smart remark she was going to give him. Which is probably a good thing because all of a sudden that scratchy feeling came back and her throat started to burn.

***

“You don’t use… voicemail?”

“No”

“Why not?”

“Pointless,” Bell offered nonchalantly, spearing a sizable chunk of filet mignon and shoving it into his mouth. He chewed with his mouth slightly open, a smirk aimed right at her.

Damn that’s sexy, she thought and clenched her thighs together forcefully. Her mouth fell open and she gaped at him openly.

He smiled wider.

She took a sip of wine and hid her smile behind her glass.

“Alright, I’ll bite,” she said playfully. “Why are voicemails pointless?”

“If I wanted to talk to you, why would I leave a message? Why not just call back?”

Kat’s eyes squinted and her eyebrows furrowed together. “That doesn’t make any sense,” she said apprehensively, still confused by his logic… or lack thereof.

“You sure,” Bell shot back, somehow continuing to perfect the mischievous schoolboy grin playing across his face.

“Yea, I think so.”

“What if I wanted to tell you,” he said, leaning toward her slightly. “What if I wanted to tell you that that the minute I saw you in that dress I forgot how to spell my name?”

“Uh-” Kat stammered and Bell leaned in just a little bit closer.

“Would you rather get a message hours later or hear me say it in enough time to actually do something about it?”

Her throat closed immediately and she wheezed.

“Here,” he said, handing her a glass of water with that grin firmly in place. “Drink that.”

***

“So what are you working on,” he asked, spooning a piece of the tiramisu they were sharing into his mouth.

“I… uh,” she said, finding it hard to concentrate when his tongue snaked out to lick a bit of mascarpone from his lip. “Uh, a little girl… well she was 16,” she began, letting her gaze settle somewhere over his shoulder, recalling all of those pictures of little August through the years. “Cops, M.E., her family… everyone thought she partied too much and just… laid down in the snow one night and died.”

“But she didn’t,” he asked, nudging her hand with the plate.

“Her mother got a letter in the mail, says something must have gone wrong, because she was heading home to see her.” Kat twirled her spoon in the cool coffee at the bottom of the bowl; lost somewhere in Amara Brown’s anguish.

“This case getting to you?"

She looked up suddenly, locking onto his gaze. “How-”

“They get to me,” he said softly, “every parent that comes to see me, begging for justice for the sons and daughters they never got to say goodbye to. I just keep thinking, what if that was my little girl?”

“Exactly,” Kat said, with the kind of feverish despair parents can only share with other parents.

“Any good leads?”

“No,” she said, pushing out a harsh breath and dropping her spoon to the table.

“Not yet,” he said quickly, a softer grin playing on his lips. He brought his spoon to her mouth. “But you will.”

She parted her lips slowly and he slipped the dessert in.

***

“Well I…” Kat said, turning to face Bell at her door. “That was-”

“Yea,” he said almost wistfully. She dipped her head and smiled.

He stepped closer.

She leaned in slowly, inching up onto the balls of her feet. Her mouth searching.

She thought he was bending down to her, but he stepped back quickly.

“You uh… you better get inside. It’s getting cold,” he said breathlessly.

“Uh.” She was speechless.

“I’ll see you.”

“Uh… yea,” she spluttered.

Kat turned around slowly and slipped her key into the lock. She pushed her door open, stepped inside the apartment building, and felt his grip on her arm. She turned around expectantly.

“I had a really great time tonight,” he said. The emotion in his eyes made her breath catch in her throat.

She opened her mouth to say something. Anything. Or even just take a step forward and pull his mouth to hers, but he was gone, halfway down the steps before she could even think.

She brought her hands to her stomach and exhaled so loudly she jumped slightly at the sound.

***

She woke up wheezing. Every breath she inhaled felt like someone was rubbing sandpaper over her lungs and each exhale burned so hot, tears spilled down her face into her open mouth.

Miller staggered into the kitchen and threw open her refrigerator. She pulled out her water pitcher, sloshing the liquid into a glass and threw it down her throat.

Most nights Kat Miller slept peacefully. Well as peacefully as any murder cop on the Philly PD could sleep after checking every lock in her apartment twice, making sure her service weapon was at hand, with the safety on. Checking, double checking, and triple checking that Veronica was safe and sound in her bed.

But sometimes, every now and then, she couldn’t leave everything she knew about the world outside when she walked through her front door. Every now and then a mother, so broken from the loss of a child, walked up to her desk and reminded her how fragile life was. And how quickly it could all be taken away.

***

Amara sat by herself at her tiny table, in her tiny kitchen with bright blue tiles and stared, at nothing.

When she met her husband Kenneth they’d talked about starting a family immediately. On the first date, to be exact. And when she got pregnant with August three years later, Amara hadn’t been able to stop smiling. Every new change in her body, every kick, it was all full of joy. And when she was born, in August of course, she was so bright and calm, Amara and Kenneth knew exactly what to name her.

They had three other children after August and Amara loved them all equally. But deep down in her soul she’d always known that August was special. And when she lost her, all those years ago, she finally realized just how special her oldest child was. Just too late to tell her. Too late to make her see.

Seventeen years later and the hole in her soul where Amara used to be was still fresh and gaping.

She stared down into her coffee cup at the now ice cold liquid and concentrated. If she closed her eyes tight enough she could remember August, smiling, happy, and soaking up the sun, twirling in its rays. It used to be she could hear her daughter’s voice if she did this long enough, but not anymore. The low rumble, just like her daddy’s, and the soft squeak she couldn’t stop when she was excited were like air to Amara. And it’d been over ten years since she was able to clearly recall the sound.

She inhaled sharply and a loud sob slipped out. Fat tears plopped obscenely into her cup.

Kenneth came bounding from the bedroom and pulled her into his arms.

“Not again,” he whispered wearily. “You can’t… You just can’t keep doing this to yourself.”

But she didn’t hear him. And she didn’t see him.

All she could see was her August breathing her last freezing breath in a pile of snow next to a filthy, stinking dumpster.

Each breath screaming, we are all too young to die.