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.

Fawn POV

Deborah clicked off her phone, the soft thud echoing in the sterile silence of the morgue. Her expression, still softened by her call with Hope, hardened into one of annoyance as she turned to Erasmo. He was still meticulously prying open the waterproof capsule.

"Any luck with that note,dear?" she asked, her voice tight with impatience.

Erasmo grunted, his brow furrowed in concentration. "Almost. It's waterlogged, but I think I've got it."

My older brother, Kyle, the only one who seemed to actually care, stepped into the room then, his surgical scrubs rumpled, a clear indication he' d rushed straight from the hospital. His face was pale, his eyes wide with concern. He always seemed to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders, especially when it involved our dysfunctional family.

"Dad, Mom," he began, his voice strained. "What's going on? I just heard about a Jane Doe, a young woman... in the marsh. Is it related to anything?"

Erasmo looked up, a rare flash of affection in his eyes. "Kyle, son. What are you doing here? You should be resting."

"I heard the police scanner. And I couldn't reach Fawn. Is she... is she alright? She hasn't been answering her phone all day." Kyle's gaze swept around the room, finally landing on my sheet-draped form. A flicker of uneasiness crossed his face.

Deborah scoffed, a harsh, dismissive sound that made my non-existent skin crawl. "Oh, Fawn. Who knows where that one is. Probably off somewhere, sulking because she couldn't stand the thought of Hope having her moment tonight. She's always been so selfish."

"Mom!" Kyle's voice was sharp, a rare defiance in the face of Deborah's authority. "That's not fair! Fawn's not selfish. She just... she feels misunderstood. And she's been trying to call you all day, I know she has."

"Trying to call?" Erasmo scoffed, finally getting the note open, but not looking up yet. "She calls when she wants something. Or when she's causing trouble. She knew we were busy. Hope's recital is tonight, the biggest night of her life. Fawn knows that. She just wants attention."

"No, Dad, you don't understand," Kyle insisted, his voice rising. "She sounded really upset earlier. She texted me asking if I'd heard from you or Mom, said she was in some kind of trouble. I tried to call her back, but it went straight to voicemail."

Deborah waved her hand dismissively. "Oh, please. 'Trouble.' Fawn's definition of trouble is probably running out of tattoo ink or some boy breaking her heart. She always exaggerates."

Erasmo finally unfolded the note, his eyes scanning the water-stained words. His face, already grim, tightened further.

"Kyle, seriously," Deborah continued, her voice laced with weary exasperation, "don't enable her. She's a grown woman. If she wants to play games and disappear before important family events, that's her choice. She'll come crawling back when she needs money or a place to crash, like always."

I watched Kyle's face crumble, his shoulders slumping. He looked at my parents, then at my body, a desperate comprehension dawning in his eyes. He started to pull out his phone.

"I need to try her again," he mumbled, his fingers flying across the screen. "Something feels wrong. Really wrong."

"Don't bother," Deborah said coldly. "She's probably got her phone off to avoid responsibility. Let her live with the consequences of her choices. She needs to learn sometime."

Just then, Sergeant Miller entered the morgue, his expression solemn. He caught sight of Kyle. "Dr. Hood, sorry to bother you here."

"It's alright, Sergeant," Kyle replied, his voice flat, his eyes still on his phone, which now showed a "call failed" message.

"Is there any update on the Jane Doe, Sergeant?" Deborah asked, regaining her professional composure. "Have you identified her yet?"

"Not yet, Dr. Bishop," Miller replied, his gaze flickering nervously between Erasmo, Deborah, and my covered form. "But we've got some new information from the preliminary scene. There's a missing persons report that just came in, a young woman, matching some of the general descriptions."

Erasmo finally looked up from the note, his eyes narrowed. "A missing persons report? Who?"

"Fawn Hood," Miller said, his voice barely a whisper. He looked directly at Erasmo. "Your daughter, sir."

A stunned silence fell over the morgue, broken only by the frantic, silent clicking of Kyle's phone as he tried to call me again.

"What are you talking about, Miller?" Erasmo growled, his voice low and dangerous. "Fawn isn't missing. She's... she's just being Fawn. Probably out with her artist friends."

"We checked her apartment, Detective," Miller continued, his voice steady despite the tension. "It was ransacked. And her landlord said she hadn't been seen in over twenty-four hours. Her friends say she never misses a gig. They're worried sick."

Deborah swayed slightly, her hand flying to her mouth. "No. That's impossible. Fawn wouldn't... she would never let herself be in real danger. She's too smart for that."

"But she does make bad choices, doesn't she, Deb?" Erasmo's voice was hollow, filled with a sudden, chilling realization. He stared at the waterlogged note, then at my body.

Kyle's phone finally gave up, displaying a "no network found" message. He looked up, his face a mask of horror. "Dad... Mom... Fawn's not answering. She's not answering." His eyes, wide and terrified, landed on my covered form. "Oh God. It can't be."

Sergeant Miller cleared his throat, his gaze heavy. "Detective Hood... Dr. Bishop... the missing persons report came in late last night. We assumed Fawn was just... being irresponsible. We didn't connect it to this until now."

"Irresponsible?" Deborah choked out, her face paling. "We thought she was just avoiding Hope's recital. We thought she was just being... Fawn."

The words hung in the air, thick with the unbearable weight of their sudden, terrifying insight. They had dismissed me, judged me, blamed me. All while I was fighting for my life, and then losing it.