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.

Fawn POV

The words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. Irresponsible. Avoiding. Just being Fawn. Their casual dismissal, their ingrained judgment, it was a familiar ache that twisted my spectral insides. For them, I was always the problem, the inconvenience, the one who didn't fit.

I remembered the first time I felt it, the crushing weight of their disapproval. I was seven, and Hope had just come home. She was a delicate porcelain doll, all curls and wide, innocent eyes. My parents, wrapped in a cocoon of adoration, showered her with affection. I, with my scraped knees and perpetually mud-stained clothes, felt like a wild, untamed thing in their pristine home.

"Fawn," Deborah had sighed, pulling Hope onto her lap, "look at you. Your clothes are dirty again. Why can't you be more like your sister, clean and proper?"

Hope, from the safety of Deborah's embrace, had stuck out her tongue at me. I'd stormed off, feeling a familiar sting behind my eyes.

Now, almost two decades later, the sting was still there. It resonated with the police officers' hushed whispers, their glances towards my parents.

"Can you believe they didn't even file a missing persons report for their own daughter?" one officer murmured to another, his voice low but audible to my disembodied ears. "If it was anyone else, they'd be tearing the city apart."

"Yeah," the other replied, shaking his head. "Guess some families are just... different. Or some kids are just easier to forget."

Easier to forget. The phrase echoed my deepest fear, my lifelong reality. I was the ghost in their lives even before I became one in death.

Deborah, still pale, clutched at Erasmo's arm. "Erasmo, this can't be Fawn. Our Fawn would never... she would never end up like this. She's strong. She's survived worse."

She was talking about the time, years ago, when I was kidnapped briefly by a low-level thug Erasmo had put away. Back then, they had moved heaven and earth to find me. Back then, I was still their daughter, young enough to be 'innocent,' not yet 'rebellious.' The memory was a cruel irony now. They had looked for me then, worried about me then. Now? Now they just assumed I was off 'acting out.'

Erasmo, his eyes scanning the details of the missing persons report that Miller had handed him, looked distant. "She has a way of finding trouble, Deb. Always has. But... not like this. This is too much."

I regret coming home, I thought, the words hollow, devoid of the emotion they once held. I should have stayed away. Should have cut all ties, like my friend suggested. Then maybe, just maybe, this wouldn't be happening.

I had always believed, deep down, that despite everything, I was still a Hood. Still a Bishop. That I had a place, however tenuous, in their family. But even in death, I was just a Jane Doe, a cautionary tale to be dismissed. My ownership of the family name was just a technicality. Hope owned their hearts.

"Here it is," Erasmo muttered, his voice hoarse, as he looked at the waterlogged note again. He gently handed the fragile, corroded piece of paper to the forensic technician, his hands trembling slightly. "See if you can salvage anything from this. It's from the victim's stomach."

Deborah, still in a state of shock, rubbed her temples. "My head is throbbing. I feel sick."

Erasmo reached out, a rare, almost tender gesture, and squeezed her shoulder. "You should go home, Deb. Get some rest. Kyle, you too. You both look like death warmed over."

Kyle, his face still pale with dread, cleared his throat. "I... I can't leave. Not yet. I need to know. Besides, I just called Dad's house. Hope... she's locked herself in her room. She heard the news reports." He looked at Deborah, a silent question in his eyes. "Should I go check on her? Make sure she's alright?"

Deborah just nodded, her eyes distant, her mind clearly elsewhere.