Buried in His Shadow

When Dad got the emergency call to return to the precinct, they still hadn’t found all the pieces of my body scattered across the city.

Outside, thunder cracked and lightning tore through the sky. Rain poured in sheets, drowning the streets. Every available officer, along with K-9 units, was deployed to search the area.

Detective Foster stepped through the precinct doors, soaked and panting, holding a bloodied evidence bag.

“This bag didn’t get wet,” he said, handing it to my dad. “Jerry, see if there’s any trace DNA left on it. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

Dad nodded and opened the bag. Inside were small, evenly sliced chunks of reddish-brown flesh.

In that instant, Dad’s eyes turned bloodshot. His breath grew ragged, like he was trying to keep his rage from boiling over.

“This bastard… This wasn’t just murder. These were cut off while the victim was still alive.”

It’s been eight years, and this was the first time I’d seen my dad cry for me.

Detective Foster’s face darkened, and he didn’t say anything.

Eventually, more body bags were brought in. Bit by bit, Dad reassembled my body. He didn’t sleep, and for nearly twenty-four hours straight, he worked hunched over the table under harsh fluorescent lights, eyes bloodshot and hands steady.

Piece by piece, a skinned, blood-red human form took shape.

Detective Foster couldn’t hold it in anymore. He turned and vomited in the sink. Then, wiping his mouth, he asked, “No skin? You think the killer was just trying to avoid leaving evidence?”

Dad took a deep breath and said, “No. This was torture. The victim was alive when they were skinned. The killer enjoyed watching them suffer.

“From the way the wounds look, I’d say they poured salt onto the exposed tissue and then kept cutting. They wanted to draw out the pain for hours. This wasn’t just a kill. This was sadism.”

That was my dad, Jerry Sorento, the city’s top forensic pathologist. He described my death with clinical precision, right down to the last scream.

“Psychopath,” Detective Foster cursed.

“The face is unidentifiable. The skin was peeled off, and what remained was soaked in acid. Based on dental wear, I’d say the victim was between 16 and 20 years old,” Dad continued. “And the killer kept all the remains except for the right leg. If I had to guess, that leg must’ve had something that could identify the victim. Maybe an old injury or surgery scar.

“He covered his tracks well, leaving behind zero prints or anything that could lead back to him. I can reconstruct the facial features from the skull, but it'll take time.”

Detective Foster placed a hand on Dad’s shoulder. His eyes drifted down to the missing leg, and then he frowned.

“Jerry, this is just like that case from eight years ago with the Rainstorm Butcher. It’s the same exact method.”

Dad froze. His gloved hands trembled.

Eight years ago, because Dad found evidence to expose him, the Rainstorm Butcher sabotaged the plane my older brother was on, killing them both.

Dad never got over it or spoke of it again.

“If this killer is connected to that man,” Detective Foster said, “you need to warn your wife to keep the family inside. If he hasn’t changed his pattern, his next target could be Lisa.”

Dad’s face twisted in a scowl as soon as he heard my name.

“She should’ve died a long time ago,” he said coldly.

That one sentence silenced the entire forensics lab. It hurt more than the knife that carved my flesh.

I thought eight years of rejection, blame, and emotional abuse might have softened his hatred, but I was wrong. He still wanted me dead.

“Jesus, Jerry,” Detective Foster snapped. “What if she hears you? What do you think that would do to her?”

“She can think whatever she wants. If she hadn’t begged Theo to come home for her birthday, he would’ve stayed hidden, and the Butcher wouldn’t have found him.” His voice cracked, raw with grief. “My boy was only eighteen… And we never even found his remains. My wife and I have been climbing that damn mountain for eight years, hoping to find anything that belonged to our son!”

They had made sure to carve those words into my memory over the years, accusing me again and again of being the reason my brother died.

Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Dad at Theo’s funeral, gripping my throat, yelling, “Why wasn’t it you?”

And honestly, I asked myself the same thing. If I had died instead, maybe I’d still be the little girl my parents used to love.

Detective Foster let out a long sigh. “Theo’s gone, Jerry. Are you seriously going to wait until something happens to Lisa before you regret this?”

I looked at Dad, silently hoping for an answer.

Instead, he muttered, “Let something happen to her. Wouldn’t that be best?”

And just like that, the last flicker of light in me went out.

I thought to myself, ‘Now that I’m dead, Dad, are you happy?’

Just then, a young officer entered, holding a small, bloodied phone charm—a little plush lamb, stained red.

Dad glanced at it and waved it off. “It’s just a regular keychain. Run the blood. See if it matches the victim.”

My heart dropped as I stared at him. It turned out he had forgotten that the charm was his gift to me.

Back then, Dad’s job made him a target, and he made dangerous enemies. One day, while Mom and I were out running errands, two men on motorcycles tried to kidnap us off the sidewalk. Mom clung to one of them, refusing to let go. They dragged her across the asphalt for over thirty feet.

Dad came to save us, and one of them stabbed him in the chest. After that, the department assigned us full-time protection, and once Dad was out of the hospital, he handed me a tiny plush lamb keychain, which hid a high-voltage stun device inside.

He taught me how to use it, over and over, until I could flip the switch in my sleep. I still remember how he ruffled my hair and smiled, saying, “Even if I’m not there, you’ll be able to protect yourself.”

Yet now, he’d forgotten the gift, and it was just a “regular keychain.”

“Dad, you just tossed away your last chance to recognize me,” I muttered to myself.

Later, when things calmed down, Dad checked his phone and saw the emergency message I had sent before I died. Without hesitation, he called Mom.

For a second, I thought, maybe now they’d realize what happened. However, he scoffed instead.

“How many times has she pulled this stalking crap? I can’t believe Lisa has the nerve to text me that again! Tell her to kneel at Theo’s grave, and maybe she’ll finally learn something.”

I tried telling him, “No, Dad. I wasn’t lying. I really was in danger. That corpse you put together? That was me. Please, just believe me for once…”

He just frowned, irritated.

I prayed Mom would feel differently and worry, but she was just as cold. After all, ever since that night eight years ago—when I was stalked and Dad accused me of lying—I’d never dared to send another emergency message.

Mom started off calm, telling Dad not to get too worked up, but then her tone shifted—sharp and cold.

Mom said. “I got that annoying message, too. She can’t go a day without causing drama. I’ve texted to tell her to kneel in front of Theo’s grave for two days and not even think about coming home. I’m sick of seeing her face.”

They talked about me like I was a stain they couldn’t scrub out. Dad then reminded Mom to double-check the locks and keep the house secure, but they never once wondered if something had really happened to me.

I curled up against the wall, numb. My heart felt like it had caved in. They didn’t even care that I was gone.

Then, outside the lab, a familiar voice broke through the silence. “I want to file a missing person’s report! My friend Lisa Sorento has been missing for two days!”