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.