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.

Fawn POV

Deborah' s nod was barely perceptible, a subconscious reaction. Her mind, however, was already racing, trying to process the impossible. Erasmo, his face a mask of grief and confusion, turned away from Kyle, unable to meet his son's desperate gaze.

"No, don't worry about Hope, Kyle," Erasmo mumbled, his voice thick with a sudden, overwhelming emotion. "She's strong. She'll be fine. Fawn... Fawn is the one who always pulls these stunts. She'll eventually realize she needs us, and she'll come home."

Stunts? I wanted to laugh, a hollow, bitter sound. Is being kidnapped, beaten, and murdered a "stunt" in your world, Father?

I remembered the last time I was truly "stuck." It was a few months ago. My car broke down on a desolate stretch of highway, miles from anywhere. My phone battery was dead. I walked for hours, my feet blistering, until I found a gas station. The first thing I did was call them. Both of them. Over and over.

Deborah had picked up on the fifth try, her voice sharp with annoyance. "Fawn, for heaven's sake! Do you know what time it is? I'm trying to relax."

"Mom, my car broke down. I'm stranded. I need a ride." My voice had been raw with exhaustion and fear.

"Stranded? Fawn, you're a grown woman. You should be more responsible. You know how unreliable that old clunker is. Did you even get it serviced?" She didn't ask where I was, or if I was safe. Just questions about my irresponsibility.

Then Hope had piped up in the background, her voice sweet and concerned. "Mother, is Fawn alright? Oh dear, I hope she's not hurt."

"See, Fawn?" Deborah had said, a sigh of exasperation in her voice. "Even Hope is worried about your poor choices. You really need to think before you act."

"I'm not hurt, Mom," I had snapped, rage bubbling up. "Just stuck. Can you please just come get me?"

"Fawn, I'm not driving all the way out there at this hour. This is a consequence of your lifestyle choices. Call a tow truck. Figure it out."

She hung up. I stared at the payphone, the dial tone a mocking drone. I had called Kyle. He had come, without a word, driving two hours out of his way to pick me up. He hadn't judged. He had just handed me a bottle of water and a granola bar.

My parents never checked on my blisters, never asked about the hours I'd walked. For them, it was just another "Fawn drama."

"She'll be fine," Erasmo repeated, as if trying to convince himself, "She's resourceful. She'll call when she's ready."

I did call, I wanted to shout. I called and you ignored me. I texted and Hope deleted it.

"She always manages to land on her feet," Deborah added, her voice a little stronger now, tinged with a familiar resentment. "Even after that kidney donation of hers, she was up and about, acting like nothing happened. Never appreciated the gravity of the situation, never stopped her reckless behavior."

Reckless? I had given a part of myself. For Hope. For them. And I was "reckless" for not being a fragile invalid afterward?

"She just needs to learn her lesson," Erasmo concluded, his voice firm, shutting down any further discussion. "She'll come back when she's learned it."

The words were a final, crushing blow. They were still waiting for me to "learn my lesson," to conform, to be the daughter they wanted. But that Fawn was gone. That Fawn was lying on an autopsy table, a nameless victim of a revenge plot they were too blind to see.

A junior forensic tech, the same nervous young woman from earlier, approached Erasmo, holding a tablet. "Detective Hood, Dr. Bishop. Preliminary report on the stomach contents."

Erasmo snatched the tablet, his eyes scanning the screen. "Go on."

"The note," the tech began, her voice trembling slightly, "the message is intact. It reads: 'An eye for an eye, Detective Hood.'"

A sudden, chilling silence descended upon the morgue. Erasmo's face went ashen. He looked at the words, then at my body, then back at the words.

"What?" Deborah whispered, her voice barely audible. "An eye for an eye? What does that mean, Erasmo?"

Erasmo's eyes, fixed on the note, hardened with a terrifying realization. He looked up, his gaze sweeping over my lifeless form, then at Deborah. A primal fear, raw and unfettered, flickered in his eyes. He knew. Or he was beginning to.