Chapter 6

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.