Their Perfect Lie, My Unseen Truth

Tentu, saya akan menambahkan POV (Point of View) ke setiap bab sesuai dengan permintaan Anda, tanpa mengubah format atau konten lainnya.

My parents stood over my unrecognizable body in the marsh, complaining that I hadn't returned their calls.

To my father, the lead detective, and my mother, the Chief Medical Examiner, I was just another "Jane Doe" who made bad life choices.

While I watched as a ghost, my mother scoffed at the silver bracelet on my wrist-the one I made for her-calling it "tacky street trash."

They spent the morning dissecting my injuries, all while praising my adopted sister, Hope, and grumbling about how I was "acting out" by missing her violin recital.

They called me irresponsible and ungrateful, unaware that I had been kidnapped and murdered as revenge for one of my father's old cases.

I screamed silently as they dismissed my death as the result of a "rebellious lifestyle."

The insults only stopped when they found the waterproof capsule in my stomach.

My father' s hands trembled as he read the note inside: "An eye for an eye, Detective Hood."

Then, my mother saw the scar on my flank-the unmistakable mark of the kidney donation I had given to their perfect daughter.

Chapter 1

Fawn POV

They stood over my body, unrecognizable and broken, and complained I hadn't called them back.

The marsh water, murky and cold, had been my final resting place. Now, it was just the setting for another one of their crime scenes. The air was thick with the metallic tang of decay, a smell I was now inherently part of. It clung to the humid air, heavy and inescapable. I watched, a silent spectator, as the forensic lights cut through the predawn gloom, illuminating the horror that was me.

A young officer, new to the job, stumbled back from the sight. He clutched his stomach, his face pale green under the harsh lights. He fumbled for his radio, his voice a tremor against the crackle of static.

"We've got a Jane Doe, sir. Marshland. Looks... bad. Really bad. Requesting immediate backup and full forensics team."

The words floated over me, impersonal and clinical. I was a problem, a case number, a grim statistic. Not Fawn. Never Fawn.

Minutes later, the sirens wailed their mournful song in the distance, drawing closer with each beat of my non-existent heart. They were coming. My parents. The irony was a bitter taste in my mouth, a taste that wouldn't leave, not even in death. They were always the first on the scene, the best in their fields. And now, I was their latest conquest.

A black SUV, sleek and imposing, cut through the crime scene tape. It was Erasmo' s. My father, Detective Erasmo Hood. He stepped out, his tall frame silhouetted against the flashing blue and red. His face, usually a mask of weary determination, was set in its familiar professional grimace. Beside him, Deborah Bishop, my mother, the Chief Medical Examiner, emerged. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a severe, perfect bun, not a strand out of place. Even at this hour, even at this scene, she commanded an almost terrifying precision.

They were a force, a legend in the city. The dynamic duo of justice. But what kind of justice awaited their own daughter, lying disfigured before them?

"Clear the perimeter, Lieutenant," Erasmo barked, his voice accustomed to authority. "I want this marsh sealed tighter than a drum. No press. Not a single camera lens."

Deborah, ever the pragmatist, was already pulling on her sterile gloves, her eyes scanning the scene with a practiced, detached gaze. She didn't look at me, not really. She looked through me, assessing the damage, calculating the time of death, mapping the trajectory of violence.

"Don't contaminate anything, folks," she instructed the juniors, her voice crisp and clear, cutting through the growing chatter. "Every detail matters here. This isn't a dumpster dive. This is a crime scene."

I saw a flicker in Erasmo's eyes, a brief moment of something akin to pity, as he took in the full scope of the brutality. It was quickly replaced by his usual stoic resolve. He was seeing a victim, a Jane Doe, a puzzle. Not Fawn. I knew this, even then. He focused on the mud-stained ground, the snapped reeds, the violent disturbance of the natural order. He was looking for clues, not for a daughter.

"Jesus H. Christ," he muttered under his breath, the closest I'd ever heard him come to an emotional outburst at a crime scene. "What kind of monster does this?"

The details were gruesome, even to me, who had lived them. My body was a roadmap of agony, twisted into an unnatural pose, a grotesque sculpture left by a deranged artist. The marsh had done its work, blurring the edges of my identity, but the violence was screaming. My face, what was left of it, was beyond recognition. My vibrant, dyed hair, once my defiant badge of individuality, was now a tangled, matted mess, indistinguishable from the swamp reeds it was mired in.

The stench, a cocktail of decomposition and marsh gas, was thick enough to taste. It made the younger officers gag, their stomachs heaving. Deborah, however, barely flinched. She was a professional, impervious to such trivialities. She just pinched the bridge of her nose, a subtle gesture of annoyance.

She approached my body, a flashlight beam dancing over my ruined form. She knelt, her movements precise, almost reverent, as if performing a sacred ritual. There was a moment, just a fraction of a second, where her gloved hand hovered over my cold, clammy skin. A touch, almost. It was the kind of gentle, almost tender gesture she reserved for the dead, for the strangers who couldn't disappoint her.

See? She can be gentle, I thought, a bitter laugh bubbling in my spectral throat. Just not with me when I was alive.

I held my breath, the one I no longer needed, watching her every move. My heart, the one that no longer beat, thumped with a phantom hope. Would she see it? Would she recognize something, anything? A birthmark, a scar, the way my fingers curled?

Her gaze, cold and analytical, swept over my left wrist. There, glinting faintly in the harsh light, was the custom silver bracelet. I had made it for her, painstakingly etched with tiny silver ferns, her favorite plant. A peace offering, a desperate plea for connection. She had rejected it, of course, calling it "too busy" and "not her style." So I wore it. Always. A constant reminder of my failed attempts to reach her.

"What's this?" Deborah asked, her voice devoid of emotion, as she carefully pried the bracelet from my stiff wrist. "Some kind of cheap trinket?"

My spectral form flinched, as if her words were physical blows. The memory of crafting it, the hope I poured into every curve of the silver fern, flashed before my eyes. I had spent weeks on it, sacrificing my lunch money for the sterling silver, burning my fingertips with the soldering iron. I had imagined her wearing it, a subtle sign that maybe, just maybe, she saw me.

"Looks like a tattoo artist made it," Erasmo mused, peering closer. "A bit rough around the edges, but some skill there." He didn't recognize the style, the signature tiny fern patterns I used in all my work.

"Tattoo artist," Deborah scoffed, dropping the bracelet into a standard evidence bag. The clink of metal against plastic was like the sound of my last hope shattering. "Probably some rebellious phase junk. Fawn makes better stuff, far more delicate. This is just... tacky."

My throat tightened. Fawn. She said my name. But not my name. Not me. Always Hope. Always the delicate, the elegant, the perfect Hope. My adopted sister, the one who could do no wrong. Even in death, I was nothing but a cautionary tale, a bad example to be contrasted with her ethereal perfection.

Maybe... maybe she'll still see it, I thought, clinging to the irrational hope that she would look closer, feel the weight of it, remember the design. Maybe she'll realize.

But Deborah just tossed the bag to an assistant. "Log this. Probably nothing. Some street trash, trying to make a statement with her fashion sense."

My breath hitched. Street trash. That's what I was to them. Always had been. The wild child, the one who didn't fit, the one who dared to be different. The ungrateful one who needed to be disciplined, unlike my brother, Kyle. He was the only one who seemed to get it, who saw past the tattoos and the dyed hair, who saw me. He had always been my anchor, my quiet supporter. He wouldn't have called me street trash. He would have known.

"This poor girl," Deborah continued, shaking her head. "No ID. Probably ran away from a good home, wasted her life with bad choices. What a shame."

The words echoed in the cold marsh air, cutting deeper than any knife. She was talking about me. My whole life, summarized and dismissed in a few harsh sentences. My choice to pursue art, my piercings, my tattoos-all of it, a "bad choice" that led me here.

I felt a cold dread settle over my ethereal form. They wouldn't recognize me. Not now. Not ever. The bracelet, my last desperate attempt to whisper my identity, was just "tacky junk."

"Make sure it's properly documented, forensics," Erasmo instructed, his voice gruff. "Standard procedure. Who knows, might lead us to something."

But he wasn't looking at the bracelet. He was already sweeping the marsh, his detective's mind moving on to the next clue, the next piece of this macabre puzzle. I was just a piece. A nameless, faceless piece.

They won't know. They'll never know, a voice whispered in the depths of my being. And for the first time, the chill I felt wasn't from the marsh. It was from the absolute, crushing certainty of their indifference. I was gone, and they were here, doing what they always did, solving crimes for strangers. But this time, the stranger was me.

Fawn POV

The chill of their indifference seeped into my very essence. I was a ghost, unable to feel the cold marsh water, yet their words, their dismissive glances, they cut deeper than any physical sensation. I was here, right in front of them, and for them, I was nobody. Just another Jane Doe.

Erasmo, his eyes narrowed in concentration, turned to his wife. "Deb, what are we looking at here? Initial findings?"

Deborah gestured towards my body with a gloved hand, her voice a low, clinical drone. "Blunt force trauma to the head, extensive. Multiple stab wounds, post-mortem mutilation to obscure identity. Body was dumped here, not killed here. Rigor mortis is fairly advanced, but the water temperature complicates an exact timeline."

She didn't miss a beat. She described the horrors inflicted upon me as if she were reading from a textbook, her voice flat, devoid of emotion. I was a specimen, a case study.

"This is professional work, Erasmo," she continued, her gaze sweeping over me once more. "Or someone trying to make it look professional. They wanted her unrecognizable, wanted to make sure she couldn't be easily traced."

Erasmo nodded, his jaw tight. He pulled out a cigarette, his movements jerky, a rare sign of agitation. He lit it, the flame a brief, defiant spark against the creeping dawn. He inhaled deeply, the smoke a grey plume against the pale sky.

Your daughter is dead, I thought, my voice a silent scream in the vast emptiness around them. And you're worried about the case. About the professional challenge.

"Detective Hood," a younger officer said, stepping forward cautiously, "smoking is prohibited within the crime scene perimeter."

Erasmo glared at him, a silent command to back off. The officer stammered an apology and retreated.

"This victim... does she look familiar to either of you?" the officer asked, hoping to appeal to their human side.

Deborah scoffed. "Hardly. Most young women with tattoos and dyed hair tend to blend together in this city. She looks like all the others who frequent those underground clubs, the ones who think rebellion is a fashion statement."

Erasmo exhaled a stream of smoke. "Rebellious, ungrateful. Always running off, getting into trouble. Probably another one who ghosted her family because she couldn't handle responsibility."

Sergeant Miller, Erasmo's long-time partner, stepped in. His face was etched with concern. "Erasmo, maybe you should take a break. You look exhausted. It's been a long week, and this... this is a rough one."

Erasmo waved him off. "I'm fine. Just... sick of seeing these tragedies. Kids these days, no respect for anything. My Fawn, for instance. Always chasing after some fleeting artistic dream, ignoring her responsibilities."

He paused, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. He coughed, a dry, hacking sound. "She used to bring me coffee, you know. When I worked late. Strong, black, just how I liked it." He trailed off, his gaze fixed on the muddy ground.

You remember that? I gasped, a surge of something akin to hope, then a fresh wave of despair. You remember the coffee, but not the child who made it for you.

Sergeant Miller gently put a hand on Erasmo's shoulder. "Erasmo, Fawn is different. She's got a good heart, just... a bit lost sometimes. You know how these young artists are."

"Lost?" Deborah sneered, pushing a stray hair from her face. "She's deliberately choosing to be difficult. Missing Hope's recital. Again. The biggest night of Hope's life, and Fawn decided to vanish. Just like she always does when someone else needs the spotlight."

"Honestly, Erasmo," Deborah continued, her voice rising slightly in exasperation, "I don't know why you even bother with that child. She never appreciates anything. Hope, on the other hand, she' s grateful, she' s talented, she' s everything we hoped for."

My non-existent heart twisted. That was it. My place in their world. The shadow, the disappointment, the one who couldn't measure up to the golden child.

"She knew how important that recital was," Erasmo chimed in, his voice hardening. "She knew. But no, Fawn always has to make a statement. Always has to be the problem."

I wasn't making a statement, I screamed, a silent echo in the marsh. I was trying to call you. I was trying to tell you I was in trouble. But you ignored every call, every text, because you thought I was acting out again.

The chilling truth was, I wasn't just missing Hope's recital. I was already gone. When Hope was bowing to thunderous applause, accepting flowers and accolades, I was already cold, already broken.

My body, lying right there, disfigured and unrecognizable, was the silent testament to their neglect. They were complaining about my absence, about my "ghosting" the family, while the very ghost they were speaking of lay at their feet. The irony was a suffocating blanket, heavy and final.

Fawn POV

The fluorescent lights of the briefing room hummed, a stark contrast to the dawn's muted light in the marsh. Erasmo, his face grim, stood at the head of the table. Deborah, still in her scrubs, sat beside him, her posture rigid. They listened intently as Detective Ramirez presented the initial findings.

"The victim, currently Jane Doe, appears to be in her early twenties. Cause of death, as Dr. Bishop noted, blunt force trauma and multiple stab wounds. The mutilation was extensive, making facial recognition impossible without advanced forensic techniques." Ramirez clicked to the next slide, showing a digitally enhanced image of my face, a blurred, distorted ghost of what I once was.

Erasmo gritted his teeth. "Any ID possible through dental records or other unique markers?"

"We're working on it, Detective. But it's a slow process given the state of the remains."

"And the dump site?" Deborah interjected, her voice sharp. "Was it the primary crime scene?"

"Negative, Dr. Bishop. The forensics team found no evidence of a struggle or significant blood spatter at the marsh. The body was transported there. We believe the primary crime scene is elsewhere."

Erasmo slammed his fist on the table, a sudden, jarring sound. "Damn it! This makes it harder. We're looking for a needle in a haystack now. Sweep the entire marshland again. Every inch. I want divers in there, dragging the bottom. And expand our search radius for any potential primary crime scenes. Abandoned warehouses, isolated cabins, rundown motels – anything that fits a profile for this kind of brutality."

He turned to Deborah. "Deb, I need that full autopsy report yesterday. Blood work, toxicology, DNA. Everything. We need to identify this victim, and we need to find who did this."

Deborah nodded, her expression unreadable. She stood abruptly. "I'll be in the lab. I'll personally oversee the process." She walked out, her back stiff, leaving Erasmo to his frantic planning.

Oh, now you care, I thought, a bitter sigh escaping my ethereal lips. Now that I'm a case, a puzzle for your brilliant minds, I'm worth your attention. Not when I was calling, desperate for help.

I remembered a similar scene years ago. Hope, barely a teenager, had been caught shoplifting a designer scarf. Deborah had been furious, not at the act itself, but at the potential stain on the family's reputation. "Hope, darling," she'd said, her voice strained, "your actions reflect on us. You're meant for so much more. You're a Bishop, for heaven's sake."

Hope had wept dramatically, her slender shoulders shaking. "I'm so sorry, Mother. I just wanted to be beautiful for my audition."

I had watched, unseen, from the hallway. Hope had winked at me, a quick, triumphant flash in her tear-filled eyes, before resuming her performance. I knew she just wanted to get a rise out of me. Later, I found the scarf tucked away, unworn, in her closet.

"Fawn, on the other hand," Deborah had said to Erasmo later that night, "she wouldn't care. She'd probably brag about it. No sense of decorum, no understanding of image."

My thoughts drifted back to the morgue. Deborah was there, standing over my cold, lifeless form. She ran a gloved hand over my back, almost tracing the outline of my spine, before stopping at a long, jagged scar that stretched across my flank.

"Poor girl," Deborah murmured, her voice uncharacteristically soft. "This scar... looks old. Appendectomy, perhaps? Or something more serious."

My entire spectral being tensed. The scar. The one thing that should have screamed my identity. Five years ago, I'd had a nephrectomy. I'd donated a kidney to Hope. It had been a whirlwind of doctor's appointments, tests, and then the surgery. Deborah, as Chief ME, had overseen every step, ensuring the best possible care for Hope. My recovery had been an afterthought, a minor inconvenience. I remembered her telling me, impatiently, to "bear the pain, it's for your sister."

I had never worn a bikini again, not because of the scar, but because of the shame I felt for not being enough, even after giving a part of myself. Deborah had hated my tattoos, my piercings, my wild hair. She hated anything that wasn't "clean" or "proper." I wondered if she' d hate this scar, too, now that it was on someone she deemed "street trash."

Please, Mom, I begged silently. Look deeper. It's me. It's your Fawn.

But Deborah just shrugged, her clinical detachment returning. "Doesn't look like anything significant to the cause of death. Probably just a medical history detail."

Just then, a junior forensic tech, a young woman with wide, nervous eyes, rushed into the room. "Dr. Bishop! Detective Hood! We found something in the victim's stomach."

Deborah' s head snapped up. "What is it?"

"A capsule, Dr. Bishop. Waterproof. It looks like... a note inside."

Erasmo, who had just returned to the morgue, strode over, his face etched with a fresh wave of intensity. "A note? What does it say?"

The tech carefully extracted the tiny capsule. Erasmo took it, his gloved fingers trembling slightly as he twisted it open. The small, waterlogged piece of paper inside was carefully unfurled.

The phone on Deborah's hip began to vibrate, a shrill, insistent buzz that cut through the silence.