Chapter 4

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.