They Told Me I Was Adopted, I Was The Real One All Along Chapter 05

They Told Me I Was Adopted, I Was The Real One All Along Chapter 05

The diamond necklace slipped from Mom’s hand 

and struck the floor. 

“What did you say?” 

Her hand shook around the phone, and her voice 

shot upward. 

“What kind of joke is this?” 

“I’m Claire Whitmore’s mother! She called me this afternoon pretending to be sick. How could she be 

dead?” 

“What kind of scam are you running, trying to fool 

the Whitmores?” 

The officer sounded stern and strictly 

professional. 

“Mrs. Whitmore, this isn’t a joke.” 

“The body is here with us. The medical examiner’s preliminary estimate puts the time of death at 

about an hour ago.” 

“Hank Carter and Linda Carter reported it. They said you sent the girl here.” 

“You and Richard Whitmore need to come to Pine 

Hollow immediately to cooperate with the investigation and identify the body.” 

The call ended. 

Mom went pale and rigid, like a statue. 

Dad came out of his study and frowned at her. 

“What happened? Who called you looking like 

that?” 

“Richard…” Her voice shook, panic filling her eyes. “Someone just called and said Claire… Claire is 

dead.” 

Dad stared for a moment, then gave a cold laugh. 

“Ridiculous.” 

“She pulled a stunt like this? Did she pay people to pretend to be cops so we’d come get her?” 

“If she had that kind of ability, she wouldn’t have 

spent nineteen years shrinking herself in this 

house.” 

As a wandering spirit, I floated beneath the crystal 

chandelier and watched them calmly. 

I watched my father, who thought he controlled 

every outcome, and my mother, who only ever 

acted superior around me. 

They didn’t believe I could die. 

To them, my life was no more valuable than a 

weed by the roadside. How could it simply 

disappear? 

Mia walked out in her designer dress and covered 

her mouth in feigned surprise. 

“How could Claire joke about something like that? 

You can’t just pretend to be a police officer.” 

“Mom, Dad, maybe we should go get her. What if 

she really suffered out there?” 

“Get her?” Dad slammed his hand on the table. 

“If she wants to perform, let her perform.” 

“Your recital goes on tomorrow. No one is going to 

Pine Hollow!” 

They really didn’t come. 

For an entire day and night, my body lay in the 

freezing morgue of the county hospital. 

The medical examiner conducted an autopsy 

while the police questioned Hank and Linda. 

My elegant parents sat in the city’s grandest concert hall, listening to their precious adopted daughter play piano. 

Only after the recital ended the next evening did Dad’s phone ring again. 

This time, it was the state police major–crimes 

unit. 

Because the case involved suspected fatal abuse and crossed county lines, the state unit had taken 

over. 

“Mr. Whitmore, this is Captain Diaz with Major 

Crimes.” 

“Your daughter Claire Whitmore’s remains have been transferred to the state medical examiner’s 

center.” 

“Come in immediately to identify her and sign the 

paperwork.” 

Some of the arrogance finally cracked on Dad’s 

face. 

He stared at the official verification number on the 

screen, his throat working painfully. 

“You transferred her… to the state center?” 

“You’re sure?” 

Half an hour later, Dad and Mom stumbled into the 

forensic center. 

Mia came too, her eyes wet as if she were ready to 

cry at any moment. 

The fluorescent hallway was painfully cold. 

Captain Diaz handed them the autopsy report 

without expression. 

“Go identify her.” 

The morgue door opened. 

A sharp smell of formaldehyde hit them. 

A body on the examination table was covered by a 

white sheet. 

Dad’s feet felt weighted with lead. 

Mom clung to his arm, her fingernails nearly 

digging into his flesh. 

Captain Diaz pulled back the sheet. 

At first glance, the body was almost 

unrecognizable. 

Terminal leukemia had reduced me to bones, my 

skin a sickly white mottled with purple. 

Fresh and old bruises covered my forehead, arms, 

and shins, along with the marks of repeated blows 

from a club. 

Most lethal of all were the dark clots left in my 

nose and mouth. 

“No!” Mom screamed and stumbled backward, 

hitting the floor. 

“That isn’t Claire! It can’t be Claire!” 

She shook her head wildly and pointed at the 

table. 

“She was fine when she left! She was only gone. 

four days!” 

Dad stared at my face. 

Even beneath the blood, even with the sunken 

eyes, he recognized the daughter he’d raised for 

nineteen years. 

His hands shook as he reached toward my face, 

then stopped in midair. 

“What… what happened to her?” 

Captain Diaz looked coldly at the polished couple. 

“What happened?” 

“Terminal acute myeloid leukemia, complicated by a severe infection and a clotting disorder.” 

“Before she died, she suffered prolonged hunger and physical abuse.” 

Captain Diaz dropped the hospital records in front 

of Dad. 

“What kind of parents send a terminally ill child to 

a house full of monsters so she can ‘learn a 

lesson‘?” 

“Richard Whitmore, were you trying to toughen her 

up, or were you trying to kill her?”