r, a renowned surgeon, and my father, the District Attorney, were t
t know. To them, I was just Jane Doe, a
analysis of the torture wounds purely clinical. My father arri
corpse, they discussed th
ther scoffed. "Probably shacked up
avon, and his upcoming championship game. I was the family's prob
hter, while my body lay decomposing at their feet. They were blind, wrapped
hip, a clue registered in my name. A piece of evidence that would not only give me back my iden
pte
clung to the overgrown weeds and seeped into the muddy gro
the morning quiet. He fumbled for his phone, h
y. A girl. Oh
to be. The world had gone hazy, like looking through
cars. Yellow tape went up, creating a neat, official box around the chaos o
A woman stepped out, and a cold sti
mot
her authority like the expensive coat draped over he
d, leading her under the tape. "It's a mess
ipped, efficient. The same voice she us
y into the soft earth. She didn't flinch. She'd seen worse, I knew
chilling detachment. She knelt beside my broken form, her
ID," the det
ies that made my face unrecognizable. "The kille
lence. I watched her hands, the same hands that had once held me as a baby
d clinical. She noted the defensive wounds on my arms, the bro
herself than to anyone else. "But n
was a puzzle solver, and I was the most complicated
and gently brushed a matted strand of hair from my cheek. It was a gesture o
e begging for a touch like tha
h, a strange
Doe. A case. A headline in the making that would be
n life. It seemed I would
ct. Not a single crack. She sto
evere blunt force trauma to the head and face. Evidence of to
t to the detective
she tucked it into her pocket. A flicker of s
weariness. Or maybe, just maybe, a splinter
f her emotions. She had to. But I wondered, as I hove
ally f