Fawn POV

The chill of their indifference seeped into my very essence. I was a ghost, unable to feel the cold marsh water, yet their words, their dismissive glances, they cut deeper than any physical sensation. I was here, right in front of them, and for them, I was nobody. Just another Jane Doe.

Erasmo, his eyes narrowed in concentration, turned to his wife. "Deb, what are we looking at here? Initial findings?"

Deborah gestured towards my body with a gloved hand, her voice a low, clinical drone. "Blunt force trauma to the head, extensive. Multiple stab wounds, post-mortem mutilation to obscure identity. Body was dumped here, not killed here. Rigor mortis is fairly advanced, but the water temperature complicates an exact timeline."

She didn't miss a beat. She described the horrors inflicted upon me as if she were reading from a textbook, her voice flat, devoid of emotion. I was a specimen, a case study.

"This is professional work, Erasmo," she continued, her gaze sweeping over me once more. "Or someone trying to make it look professional. They wanted her unrecognizable, wanted to make sure she couldn't be easily traced."

Erasmo nodded, his jaw tight. He pulled out a cigarette, his movements jerky, a rare sign of agitation. He lit it, the flame a brief, defiant spark against the creeping dawn. He inhaled deeply, the smoke a grey plume against the pale sky.

Your daughter is dead, I thought, my voice a silent scream in the vast emptiness around them. And you're worried about the case. About the professional challenge.

"Detective Hood," a younger officer said, stepping forward cautiously, "smoking is prohibited within the crime scene perimeter."

Erasmo glared at him, a silent command to back off. The officer stammered an apology and retreated.

"This victim... does she look familiar to either of you?" the officer asked, hoping to appeal to their human side.

Deborah scoffed. "Hardly. Most young women with tattoos and dyed hair tend to blend together in this city. She looks like all the others who frequent those underground clubs, the ones who think rebellion is a fashion statement."

Erasmo exhaled a stream of smoke. "Rebellious, ungrateful. Always running off, getting into trouble. Probably another one who ghosted her family because she couldn't handle responsibility."

Sergeant Miller, Erasmo's long-time partner, stepped in. His face was etched with concern. "Erasmo, maybe you should take a break. You look exhausted. It's been a long week, and this… this is a rough one."

Erasmo waved him off. "I'm fine. Just... sick of seeing these tragedies. Kids these days, no respect for anything. My Fawn, for instance. Always chasing after some fleeting artistic dream, ignoring her responsibilities."

He paused, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. He coughed, a dry, hacking sound. "She used to bring me coffee, you know. When I worked late. Strong, black, just how I liked it." He trailed off, his gaze fixed on the muddy ground.

You remember that? I gasped, a surge of something akin to hope, then a fresh wave of despair. You remember the coffee, but not the child who made it for you.

Sergeant Miller gently put a hand on Erasmo's shoulder. "Erasmo, Fawn is different. She's got a good heart, just... a bit lost sometimes. You know how these young artists are."

"Lost?" Deborah sneered, pushing a stray hair from her face. "She's deliberately choosing to be difficult. Missing Hope's recital. Again. The biggest night of Hope's life, and Fawn decided to vanish. Just like she always does when someone else needs the spotlight."

"Honestly, Erasmo," Deborah continued, her voice rising slightly in exasperation, "I don't know why you even bother with that child. She never appreciates anything. Hope, on the other hand, she' s grateful, she' s talented, she' s everything we hoped for."

My non-existent heart twisted. That was it. My place in their world. The shadow, the disappointment, the one who couldn't measure up to the golden child.

"She knew how important that recital was," Erasmo chimed in, his voice hardening. "She knew. But no, Fawn always has to make a statement. Always has to be the problem."

I wasn't making a statement, I screamed, a silent echo in the marsh. I was trying to call you. I was trying to tell you I was in trouble. But you ignored every call, every text, because you thought I was acting out again.

The chilling truth was, I wasn't just missing Hope's recital. I was already gone. When Hope was bowing to thunderous applause, accepting flowers and accolades, I was already cold, already broken.

My body, lying right there, disfigured and unrecognizable, was the silent testament to their neglect. They were complaining about my absence, about my "ghosting" the family, while the very ghost they were speaking of lay at their feet. The irony was a suffocating blanket, heavy and final.

Fawn POV

The fluorescent lights of the briefing room hummed, a stark contrast to the dawn's muted light in the marsh. Erasmo, his face grim, stood at the head of the table. Deborah, still in her scrubs, sat beside him, her posture rigid. They listened intently as Detective Ramirez presented the initial findings.

"The victim, currently Jane Doe, appears to be in her early twenties. Cause of death, as Dr. Bishop noted, blunt force trauma and multiple stab wounds. The mutilation was extensive, making facial recognition impossible without advanced forensic techniques." Ramirez clicked to the next slide, showing a digitally enhanced image of my face, a blurred, distorted ghost of what I once was.

Erasmo gritted his teeth. "Any ID possible through dental records or other unique markers?"

"We're working on it, Detective. But it's a slow process given the state of the remains."

"And the dump site?" Deborah interjected, her voice sharp. "Was it the primary crime scene?"

"Negative, Dr. Bishop. The forensics team found no evidence of a struggle or significant blood spatter at the marsh. The body was transported there. We believe the primary crime scene is elsewhere."

Erasmo slammed his fist on the table, a sudden, jarring sound. "Damn it! This makes it harder. We're looking for a needle in a haystack now. Sweep the entire marshland again. Every inch. I want divers in there, dragging the bottom. And expand our search radius for any potential primary crime scenes. Abandoned warehouses, isolated cabins, rundown motels – anything that fits a profile for this kind of brutality."

He turned to Deborah. "Deb, I need that full autopsy report yesterday. Blood work, toxicology, DNA. Everything. We need to identify this victim, and we need to find who did this."

Deborah nodded, her expression unreadable. She stood abruptly. "I'll be in the lab. I'll personally oversee the process." She walked out, her back stiff, leaving Erasmo to his frantic planning.

Oh, now you care, I thought, a bitter sigh escaping my ethereal lips. Now that I'm a case, a puzzle for your brilliant minds, I'm worth your attention. Not when I was calling, desperate for help.

I remembered a similar scene years ago. Hope, barely a teenager, had been caught shoplifting a designer scarf. Deborah had been furious, not at the act itself, but at the potential stain on the family's reputation. "Hope, darling," she'd said, her voice strained, "your actions reflect on us. You're meant for so much more. You're a Bishop, for heaven's sake."

Hope had wept dramatically, her slender shoulders shaking. "I'm so sorry, Mother. I just wanted to be beautiful for my audition."

I had watched, unseen, from the hallway. Hope had winked at me, a quick, triumphant flash in her tear-filled eyes, before resuming her performance. I knew she just wanted to get a rise out of me. Later, I found the scarf tucked away, unworn, in her closet.

"Fawn, on the other hand," Deborah had said to Erasmo later that night, "she wouldn't care. She'd probably brag about it. No sense of decorum, no understanding of image."

My thoughts drifted back to the morgue. Deborah was there, standing over my cold, lifeless form. She ran a gloved hand over my back, almost tracing the outline of my spine, before stopping at a long, jagged scar that stretched across my flank.

"Poor girl," Deborah murmured, her voice uncharacteristically soft. "This scar... looks old. Appendectomy, perhaps? Or something more serious."

My entire spectral being tensed. The scar. The one thing that should have screamed my identity. Five years ago, I'd had a nephrectomy. I'd donated a kidney to Hope. It had been a whirlwind of doctor's appointments, tests, and then the surgery. Deborah, as Chief ME, had overseen every step, ensuring the best possible care for Hope. My recovery had been an afterthought, a minor inconvenience. I remembered her telling me, impatiently, to "bear the pain, it's for your sister."

I had never worn a bikini again, not because of the scar, but because of the shame I felt for not being enough, even after giving a part of myself. Deborah had hated my tattoos, my piercings, my wild hair. She hated anything that wasn't "clean" or "proper." I wondered if she' d hate this scar, too, now that it was on someone she deemed "street trash."

Please, Mom, I begged silently. Look deeper. It's me. It's your Fawn.

But Deborah just shrugged, her clinical detachment returning. "Doesn't look like anything significant to the cause of death. Probably just a medical history detail."

Just then, a junior forensic tech, a young woman with wide, nervous eyes, rushed into the room. "Dr. Bishop! Detective Hood! We found something in the victim's stomach."

Deborah' s head snapped up. "What is it?"

"A capsule, Dr. Bishop. Waterproof. It looks like... a note inside."

Erasmo, who had just returned to the morgue, strode over, his face etched with a fresh wave of intensity. "A note? What does it say?"

The tech carefully extracted the tiny capsule. Erasmo took it, his gloved fingers trembling slightly as he twisted it open. The small, waterlogged piece of paper inside was carefully unfurled.

The phone on Deborah's hip began to vibrate, a shrill, insistent buzz that cut through the silence.

Fawn POV

Deborah' s face, etched moments before with a blend of professional curiosity and a hint of dread, softened instantly when she saw the caller ID. Her voice, usually so clipped and precise, became honeyed, gentle.

"Hope, darling? Is everything alright?" she cooed into the phone, turning away slightly, as if to shield the conversation from the grim reality of the morgue.

My stomach churned, a phantom limb reacting to the familiar favoritism. Even now, with my dead body lying a few feet away, Hope was her priority.

"Are you on your way to the hall? You're not nervous, are you? You'll be brilliant, I know it." Deborah's words were a comforting balm. "Just breathe, my love. Remember all your practice. Your father and I will be there as soon as we can, I promise."

I could almost hear Hope's sweet, fragile voice on the other end, laced with just enough vulnerability to tug at my mother's heartstrings. Hope, the master manipulator. She always knew exactly what to say, how to play the part of the perfect, delicate prodigy.

"Oh, Fawn? Is she coming?" Hope' s voice, a little too innocent, a little too curious, filtered through the phone. "I thought... she said she might. It would mean so much to have her there tonight, Mother. Even if she doesn't really like classical music, it's a big night for me."

My spectral lips twisted into a bitter smile. Hope didn't want me there. She wanted to bask in the solo spotlight, unchallenged, unburdened by my presence. She wanted to know I wouldn't ruin her big night, as she always called it. She wanted to know I was out of the way.

"I know Fawn can be... difficult," Hope continued, her voice dropping to a sympathetic whisper, "and she probably thinks it's boring. But I still wish she'd come support me. She's my sister, after all."

Hope' s self-pitying act was a well-worn script, one I knew by heart. It always ended the same way: with my mother's exasperated sigh and a renewed torrent of criticism aimed squarely at me.

"Oh, Hope, don't you worry about Fawn," Deborah said, her voice already losing its warmth, replaced by a familiar sharpness. "She's just being difficult, as usual. Probably off with her hooligan friends, doing whatever it is they do. She never considers anyone but herself."

Erasmo, who was still trying to decipher the waterlogged note, glanced up, a flicker of irritation crossing his face. "Fawn ghosted us again, didn't she?" he asked, not really a question. "Typical. Always has to make a scene, always has to be the center of attention by not being there."

"Exactly," Deborah snapped, her voice tightening. "She knows how important tonight is for you, Hope. For us. But she just can't bring herself to be a supportive sister. She's irresponsible, ungrateful, and frankly, a disgrace to this family sometimes. Unlike you, my precious girl."

My eyes, now just vacant sockets, burned with a rage I couldn't express. Irresponsible? Ungrateful? I gave up a kidney for Hope! A part of my actual body, a part of my life, for her. And this is how they repaid me? With scorn and dismissal?

"You focus on your performance, my love," Deborah said, her voice softening once more for Hope. "Your father and I will handle Fawn. She will be there. Or she will regret it. I'll make sure of it."

A sweet, triumphant giggle floated from the phone. "Thank you, Mother. You're the best. I love you both so much."

"We love you too, dearest," Deborah murmured, her eyes distant, already imagining Hope's beaming face on stage. She hung up, a tight, annoyed expression settling on her features.

"That girl," Deborah sighed, shaking her head. "Always so sweet, so understanding. Trying to make excuses for Fawn, even when Fawn is being utterly ridiculous." She glanced at Erasmo. "See? Hope actually cares about family. Fawn just... exists."

Exists? I scoffed, a silent, bitter laugh. I died. For you. Because of you.

They never understood. My name, Fawn Hood, was my birthright, but it felt like a burden. I had tried to change it, to distance myself from the "Hood" legacy, but Deborah had been adamant. "A Bishop doesn't change her name casually, Fawn. You carry important lineage." But she wanted me to not change the name because she wanted to control me and wanted to control my identity.

Yet, in their hearts, I was never truly their daughter. Hope was. Hope, the beautiful, talented, perfect adopted daughter. The one who brought them pride, bathed them in reflected glory. I was just the messy, inconvenient biological child.

When you find out who I am, I thought, a shiver running through my spectral form, when you realize the "Jane Doe" is me, the "irresponsible, ungrateful" Fawn, I wonder what that perfect daughter will have to say.

The truth, a chilling whisper, started to form. If they had answered my calls, if they hadn't been so consumed with Hope's recital and their own resentments, maybe I wouldn't be here. Maybe I'd still be alive.

And Hope? Hope knew. She knew I was in trouble. She had gotten my distress texts. But her spotlight was more important.