Their Forgotten Daughter

Chapter 1

The moment the madman began his torture, my father—Captain Carter, the renowned detective—and my mother, Dr. Carter, the brilliant chief forensic pathologist, were too busy cheering for my sister Evelyn at her prestigious tennis tournament. The perfect parents, basking in their golden child’s glory.

The man, Nathan Black, an ex-con my father had put away years ago, had vengeance burning in his eyes. He carved out my tongue with a rusted blade and used my phone to call my father. My dad answered, voice clipped with impatience. “Whatever this is, it’ll have to wait. Evelyn’s match is starting.” Then the line went dead.

Nathan let out a dark chuckle, his breath hot against my ear. “Damn. I really thought they’d care about their real daughter. Guess I took the wrong one.”

Hours later, my parents arrived at the crime scene. They stood frozen, their faces twisting in fury and disgust as they took in the mutilated corpse. They cursed Nathan, called him a monster, swore justice would be served.

But not once—not once—did it dawn on them.

The broken, unrecognizable body lying before them was mine.

They discovered my corpse in a derelict warehouse.

The construction crew who stumbled upon me looked like they'd witnessed pure horror. One man was retching violently against the wall while another struggled to dial 911 with trembling fingers.

My parents arrived in a frenzy, abandoning Isabella Carter’s charity gala mid-event.

"Put on your masks," the forensic specialist ordered, his expression grim as he ushered them inside.

Despite the countless crime scenes they'd processed—my father, the renowned police captain, and my mother, New York’s top forensic pathologist—this one was different. They stood frozen, their gazes locked onto the unrecognizable remains of what had once been me.

The summer’s relentless heat had taken its toll. My body was bloated, my features distorted beyond recognition. Deep gashes marred every inch of my skin, and my head dangled precariously by a thread of flesh. The stench? It was suffocating.

My mother hesitated, then slipped on her gloves, her face an unreadable mask. But for just a second, her eyes flickered—something unfamiliar. Pity. A look she’d never spared me when I was alive.

She knelt beside me, working in silence, and pried a bloodstained ring from my finger. The one I’d crafted for our family—a matching set. But because Isabella’s didn’t fit, it had somehow become my fault.

"Why must you always complicate things?"

"Isabella has been with this family for eighteen years, Evelyn. She’ll always come first, even if you’re our blood."

Those words had clung to me, no matter how much I pretended they didn’t matter. Maybe I’d hoped the ring would mean something now. That they’d finally see me.

They didn’t. My mother handed it off like any other piece of evidence. "Tag this," she instructed her assistant, her tone detached.

I should’ve known better. I was never truly part of their world.

My brother used to argue otherwise. "They only adopted Isabella because they couldn’t find you. You’re their real daughter. Their favorite."

But returning never felt that way. I was a ghost intruding on someone else’s life, someone else’s family.

At the scene, my father sighed and lit a cigarette, the sharp click of the lighter cutting through the silence. "What do we know?"

My mother peeled off her gloves, all business. "Female, early twenties. Throat slit. But there are signs of prolonged torture. This wasn’t quick. The killer was meticulous, sadistic. We need to move fast before the press catches wind."

Dad exhaled a slow stream of smoke, his face weary. "We’ll handle it."

"The killer’s still out there," the forensic specialist warned. "You’ve got two daughters. Keep them close. Don’t let them wander alone."

"Isabella listens," my mother dismissed with a wave. "Evelyn? Impossible to control."

The specialist smirked, as if he’d heard this refrain before. My father shifted, rubbing his shoulder.

"Still bothering you?" the specialist asked.

"It’s fine. I’ve got the pain patch Evelyn bought me on," Dad muttered, then trailed off, as if suddenly remembering I existed.

Even their so-called problem child noticed when they were in pain.

The specialist clapped him on the back. "Cut her some slack. She is your real daughter."

Dad shook his head, lips pressed thin. "Isabella wanted Evelyn at her tennis match, but what did Evelyn do? Vanished. Played dead. Isabella only placed third because she was distracted. Evelyn hasn’t been home in days. Probably off doing who-knows-what. It’s different when they’re not… you know."

His words cut deeper than any blade.

I wasn’t avoiding home, Dad. I couldn’t come back. The daughter you called selfish died the day you chose Isabella’s match over her.

And now? I’m right here. At your feet.