Chapter 3

The next morning, I followed my father back to the morgue. The air was cold and sterile, a stark contrast to the humid New Orleans heat outside. The dismembered parts of my body were laid out on a metal table, a grotesque jigsaw puzzle.

The medical examiner, a weary-looking man named Dr. Evans, was speaking in low tones.

"It's a young woman. Late teens, early twenties. He took his time with this one, David. The brutality... it's personal."

My father nodded, his face grim. "Any way to identify her?"

"Not from the face," Dr. Evans said, shaking his head. "He made sure of that. We'll have to rely on dental records or DNA. We're running a check against the missing persons database, but it could take time."

I felt a strange, twisted sense of relief. They didn't know it was me. My father's cold, professional mask wouldn't have to break. Not yet.

Back at the precinct, a nervous young woman was waiting. It was Olivia, my roommate, my only friend. Her eyes were red-rimmed, and she clutched her phone in her hand.

"Detective?" she said, approaching my father's desk. "I need to file a missing person report. It's my friend, Chloe."

My father looked up from his files, his expression annoyed. "Chloe? My daughter?"

"Yes," Olivia said, her voice trembling. "She was supposed to meet me yesterday for her birthday. She never showed up. She's not answering her phone. I'm worried."

I saw a flicker of something in my father's eyes. Not concern. Irritation.

"She's not missing," he said dismissively. "She had a fight with us yesterday. She's throwing a tantrum. This is what she does."

"No," Olivia insisted, her voice getting stronger. "This is different. She was scared. She texted me. She said she was being followed."

My father stood up, his full height towering over her. He was using his cop voice, the one that made criminals confess.

"Listen to me, young lady," he said, his tone icy. "My daughter is a drama queen. She's trying to manipulate us because she didn't want to do her volunteer work. I'm in the middle of a major homicide investigation. I don't have time for these games. Now go home. She'll turn up."

He turned his back on her, a clear dismissal. Olivia stood there for a moment, stunned into silence. Tears streamed down her face as she turned and walked away.

I wanted to reach out, to comfort her. But I was nothing. Just air.

I followed my father home again that night. The house was quiet. My mother was in the kitchen, preparing dinner. She was humming a little tune, something she hadn't done in years.

"What are you making?" my father asked, a rare hint of softness in his voice.

"Ethan's favorite," she said, smiling. "Gumbo. Just the way he liked it, with extra sausage. I just had a feeling today. A good feeling."

They sat at the dinner table, the empty chair where Ethan used to sit feeling like a shrine. My chair was also empty, but no one seemed to notice or care. They talked about the past, about Ethan's football games, about his smile.

They were so lost in their grief for the son they thought was dead, they didn't even see the daughter who actually was.