The Dead Man In My Case File

It was ten years after the divorce when our daughter, Phoebe, was hauled into the precinct for a street fight. The detective assigned to question her, by some cruel twist of fate, was her mother, Simona—the woman she hadn’t seen in a decade. I watched, a helpless ghost, as Simona’s eyes scanned Phoebe’s tattooed forearm and the shocking electric-blue streaks in her hair. She clamped down on her fury and snapped: “Phoebe Hawthorne, look at the state of you! Fighting, skipping school, running with riff-raff—” “What the hell has your father been teaching you? How could he let you become this?!” Phoebe, who had been silent, suddenly lifted her head. Her eyes were raw with accusation. “My fighting is my own business. You have no right to talk about my dad!” Slap! The sharp crack of a hand striking flesh echoed through the large, sterile room. Simona’s hand froze mid-air, trembling slightly. She took a deep, shuddering breath, then commanded the nearby officer, “Riley, get me Reid Hawthorne’s number. Tell him that since he clearly can’t parent, I’m taking the child starting today.” As they disappeared, the young officer, Riley, stared at his computer screen. Right there, stark and inescapable on my record, were four chilling words: DEATH REGISTERED.

1 My soul immediately followed Simona and Phoebe out. Phoebe stumbled as Simona hauled her along, the left side of her face already bright red and swelling. My heart twisted. I reached out, desperate to soothe her cheek, but my fingers passed uselessly through the angry redness. I hovered next to Simona, my gaze full of mute accusation. Simona, how could you hit her? Don’t you know how hard it was for her to survive at all? Simona shoved Phoebe into the passenger seat of her SUV. She didn’t start the car, instead gripping the steering wheel until her knuckles were white. Her eyes were dark and stormy. “Buckle up,” she said, her voice tight. Phoebe turned her head, staring out the window, completely still. Simona swiveled to glare at her. “Did you not hear me?” “I heard you.” Phoebe’s voice was a whisper, laced with a choked sob. “I just don’t want to listen to you.” “You—” Simona sucked in another breath, desperately trying to contain her rage. “Fine. Fine. Reid really has raised quite the daughter.” “Don’t you dare talk about my dad!” Phoebe spun back, her tear-filled eyes locked on Simona. “Ten years! Have you cared about me for a single day? Don’t pretend to be a mother now!” Simona laughed, a short, bitter sound. “I didn’t care about you? Who was it that fought tooth and nail for custody? Who swore he could give you the best life even without me?” “Look at you now, Phoebe. Just look at yourself!” “Street fighting, police records, hair dyed like some juvenile delinquent, and this trash tattooed on your arm.” “Is this his ‘best life’?” Phoebe’s lips began to tremble. “You don’t understand…” “I don’t understand?” Simona cut her off, her voice rising. “I only know that a decent father doesn’t raise a child like this! If Reid truly cared, he would have taught you right from wrong, not let you run wild with strangers on the street!” “He didn’t!” Phoebe shrieked, tears finally bursting free. “He did care! He cared more about me than anyone in the world! You don’t get to talk about him! You don’t deserve to!” I floated in the backseat, reaching out in vain to hold my daughter’s shaking shoulders. Phoebe, Daddy’s here, Daddy’s right here… But only the rushing night wind could hear my voice. Simona’s phone vibrated. Annoyed, she fumbled for it. The screen lit up with a text preview from Riley. She glanced at it, about to tap it open. “What do you know?!” Phoebe screamed. “My dad already—” “Already what?” The intensity of Phoebe’s words made Simona furious. She backed out of the message and threw the phone onto the center console. “Already too lazy to care about you? Already found a new flame and tossed you aside?” “Phoebe, I’m telling you, you’re under my roof now. Those bad habits? I’ll break every single one of them out of you!” Phoebe opened her mouth as if to say something else, but instead just wiped her eyes, turned away, and fell silent. Curled up in the seat, she looked so small, so fragile. I watched her stubborn profile, my heart being shredded. The car finally pulled up outside a tattoo parlor. “Get out.” Simona unbuckled her seatbelt. Phoebe looked at the storefront in alarm. “What are you doing?” “Getting it removed.” Simona pointed to the tattoos on her arm, her tone brooking no argument. “No daughter of mine is going to walk around with that kind of trash.” “No!” Phoebe shrank back violently. Simona got out, rounded the car, pulled the door open, and reached for her. “Let go! I won’t do it!” “You don’t have a choice!” As they struggled, the tattoo parlor door opened. A man with sleeves of ink on his arms poked his head out. He saw Phoebe and frowned. “Who the hell are you? Bullying a kid?” 2 Phoebe looked like she’d found a lifeline. “Vin!” Simona paused, her eyes sharp as she swept her gaze over the man. “And who are you?” Vin ignored her. He walked right up to Phoebe, positioning himself between her and Simona. “Ma’am, in broad daylight… well, it’s night, but still. Dragging a kid around like this isn’t right, is it?” “I am her mother,” Simona stated, each word clipped. Vin raised an eyebrow, gave her a long appraisal, and then smiled, but without warmth. “Oh, I get it. You must be Reid Hawthorne’s deadbeat ex-wife, Simona. So, suddenly decided you had a daughter after all this time?” Simona’s face darkened. “That is none of your concern.” She looked the man up and down, her voice dripping with undisguised contempt. “Hmph. Reid’s social circle is truly broad these days. It’s no wonder he raised his daughter like this, running around with riff-raff.” With that, she wrenched Phoebe, who was sobbing and trying to squat on the ground, back onto her feet. “Since this is a friend’s shop, we’ll go to another one.” Simona’s voice was final. “I won’t go! Vin! Help me!” Phoebe struggled in vain, casting a desperate look at the man. Vin stepped forward, his brow furrowed. “Simona, be reasonable! The kid doesn’t want to, you—” “I’m her mother!” Simona cut him off, her eyes cold. “How I discipline my daughter is not up to an outsider.” She half-pulled, half-carried Phoebe toward the car. Just before yanking the door open, Simona stopped and spoke without turning around. “Since you’re Reid’s friend, do me a favor and pass him a message.” “I’ve taken the child. If he has an ounce of fatherly instinct left, he can come find me to discuss it.” Then, she unceremoniously shoved Phoebe back into the car and prepared to leave. Vin stood rooted to the spot, stunned for a half-second, before erupting in a curse. “Is she a psychopath?… The man’s been dead for seven, eight years!” “How the hell am I supposed to give him a message? Go down to the damn underworld?” The thud of the car door slamming shut completely drowned out Vin’s words. The car pulled away, and Simona never heard him. Vin watched the taillights disappear, then sighed, his eyes slightly red. I looked at the man’s genuine sorrow and bowed silently before him. Vin, thank you for looking after Phoebe all these years. Unfortunately, as a ghost, my gratitude was lost to the night air. I turned and chased after the car that was vanishing around the corner. Inside, Phoebe was curled up in the passenger seat, tears streaming silently down her face. Simona glanced at her, breaking the silence with a hard, unyielding voice. “From now on, you are not to associate with people like that man.” “Your father only got worse mixing with that kind of trash! Look at you now…” “My dad is not!” Phoebe snapped her head up, her voice hoarse and crying. “Vin is a good person! You can’t—” “A good person?” Simona scoffed, interrupting her. “A good person encourages a fourteen-year-old to get tattoos? Lets you run around the streets?!” “Phoebe, your father was led astray by people like that—poor judgment, a messy circle, incapable of even raising his own child properly!” The more she spoke, the more convinced she sounded. Her tone was final. “You’re with me now. All those messy relationships are cut off.” “When your father realizes his mistake, then we can talk.” Phoebe looked utterly drained of strength and stopped arguing. Floating beside them, I looked at Simona’s self-righteous profile, my heart tearing apart. She didn’t know that after I died, my daughter had only survived thanks to the very people she labeled as “trash.” The car entered a quiet, high-end residential complex. Simona parked the car, took off her coat, wrapped it around Phoebe’s thin frame, and pulled her toward the building. Phoebe moved like a puppet, numbly following behind. Simona unlocked the door. Warm light and the aroma of cooked food spilled out. “You’re back? Why so late? Noah’s already asleep…” A gentle male voice rang out, and footsteps approached. A tall, handsome man in comfortable loungewear appeared in the entryway. His gaze went naturally to Simona, warm and intimate, but when he saw my daughter, his smile froze instantly. And my soul, upon seeing his face, completely seized up. 3 The man before me was my own brother, Logan. When our parents divorced, he went with our mother, and I stayed with our father. Over the years, we’d seen each other only a handful of times. I never imagined he would become my ex-wife’s current husband. Looking at the polished ease and refined warmth in his eyes, I could barely recognize him. When had they gotten together? How could it be him? A hundred questions flooded my consciousness. Logan looked at Phoebe’s face, a face that bore a slight resemblance to his own, and a flash of panic crossed his eyes. “This… this is Phoebe, right?” His voice sounded unnatural. He quickly looked over at Simona, his eyes shifting nervously. “Did you… did you run into Reid? Why… why didn’t he come up with you?” His fingers unconsciously twisted the hem of his shirt, a hint of guilt in his posture. Simona frowned, taking off her jacket with an annoyed gesture. “I didn’t run into him. I found her at the precinct. She was arrested for fighting.” She walked into the living room, sounding exhausted. “Look at the way she is! How is Reid even a father? He’s raised the child into this mess!” She grew angrier as she spoke, turning to Logan with an eager need for validation. “Logan, I plan to bring the child back and raise her myself. You don’t object, do you?” A flicker of jealousy, quickly suppressed, crossed Logan’s eyes before he gently put an arm around Simona’s shoulder. “Of course, I don’t object. She’s your daughter, which makes her our daughter.” “It’s just… Reid might…” He trailed off. “Don’t mention him!” Simona waved her hand dismissively. “If he had an ounce of conscience, he’d have come looking for me already!” “Since he doesn’t care, then he’ll never care!” Logan lowered his head, a nearly imperceptible curve forming at the corner of his mouth. “Alright, let’s not talk about that now. I made soup. It’s been keeping warm. Come eat something.” He said this and reached out to take Phoebe’s hand. Phoebe abruptly recoiled, stepping back and avoiding his touch. Logan’s hand froze in mid-air, a look of embarrassment crossing his face. Simona’s temper flared again. “Phoebe Hawthorne! What is that attitude!” “It’s fine, it’s fine. The child just got back, she’s probably scared,” Logan quickly intervened. “Phoebe, let’s just eat.” Phoebe just pressed her lips together and remained silent. After dinner, Simona checked the time and said to Logan, “Let Phoebe stay in the guest room tonight.” Logan looked troubled, hesitating. “The guest room… it hasn’t been cleaned in ages. I doubt we can get it ready tonight.” “How about we let Phoebe make do in the small spare room for tonight? It’s cramped, but it’s clean.” The so-called spare room was really a utility closet that had been sectioned off from the laundry area—a narrow space. Simona nodded, seemingly not noticing the slight. “Fine. That will have to do for now.” Phoebe remained silent the entire time, following Logan toward the tiny room. I floated beside her, looking at the space where it would be difficult even to turn around, and I felt a gut-wrenching ache. Is this my daughter’s place in this house? As soon as the door closed, Phoebe numbly lifted the hem of her hoodie. A cut was visible near her waist. With practiced ease, she pulled iodine swabs and a clean bandage from her backpack, setting about cleaning the wound herself. Sweat beaded on her forehead from the pain, but she didn’t make a sound. My spirit shook. Tears streamed down my face. My Phoebe, these ten years, you truly suffered so much. After dressing the wound, she collapsed onto the narrow, hard bed and fell into a deep sleep. I sat by her side, watching her sleeping face, stroking her cheek over and over. In the middle of the night, Phoebe’s breathing suddenly grew shallow and rapid. Her cheeks were flushed with an unnatural color. She was burning up. It must be a severe infection from the injury. “Phoebe? Phoebe!” I urgently called out to her, trying to shake her awake, but my ghost body only passed through her again and again. Seeing the continuous sweat on my daughter’s brow, I was frantic. I have to find Simona. I floated toward the master bedroom, rushed to Simona’s bedside, and screamed at her. “Simona! Wake up! Phoebe has a fever! Go check on her! She’s burning up!” But my desperate cries only dissolved into the quiet hum of the air conditioning. I tried to tap the nightstand lamp, to make a noise, but it was all useless. I could only watch Simona’s peaceful, sleeping profile. What do I do? Will my Phoebe be okay? She’s so small. What if the fever damages her? I rushed back to the spare room and stood guard by her bed. Watching her face contort in increasing pain, I was heartbroken and powerless. Was I wrong to divorce her so impulsively, to take our daughter away from her? Just then, Phoebe began to seize because of the high fever. I broke down, sobbing uncontrollably, trying again and again to hold her. “Help me. Someone help my daughter, save her.” But my daughter’s body didn’t move. My pleas vanished into the dark air. Just as I sank into despair, I heard a soft click. The door was slowly pushed open from the outside. 4 It was Logan. I latched onto him like a drowning man. My spirit surged forward frantically. “Brother, please, save her! Please, save Phoebe! She has a high fever! I beg you!” Logan saw Phoebe curled up on the bed. He frowned and instinctively turned, seeming ready to wake Simona. But just as he touched the doorknob, he hesitated. “Go! Go call Simona!” I frantically spun around him, urging him, trying to push him with my ethereal hands. Logan slowly turned back, his gaze fixed again on the moaning, suffering Phoebe on the bed. A mixture of struggle and jealousy flickered in his eyes. My gut feeling of dread sharpened instantly. Then, I heard his quiet murmur: “Why didn’t you just die with your father…” “It’s been ten years… ten years of peace… why did you have to show up now?” I froze. My spirit felt like it was fracturing. His words triggered a decade’s worth of memories in my mind. It was the fifth year of my marriage to Simona. Phoebe was four. For those five years, I genuinely believed I was living in a perfect world. Our daughter was sweet and lovable, and my wife was thoughtful and devoted. I thought we would be happy forever. The disaster struck on our sixth wedding anniversary. I had cooked a special dinner, but when I waited until midnight, all I got was a drunken Simona. I helped her into bed, but beneath her open collar, I saw a constellation of glaring hickeys. In that moment, my world imploded. I shook her awake, forcing an answer. In my hysterics, she admitted it, brazenly. She said she’d had too much to drink at an event and had a one-night stand with a business partner—that was all. “It was just a mistake any woman could be forgiven for, Reid. Do you have to make such a scene?” She rubbed her temples, her voice carrying a hint of impatience. Her cavalier attitude chilled me more than the betrayal itself. I couldn’t accept it and filed for divorce that very night. I was arrogant and proud, believing with foolish certainty that I could raise my daughter perfectly well without her—even better, in fact. The divorce was fast. I moved out with Phoebe. However, fate did not favor my stubbornness. In the first year after the divorce, I was in a car accident. My life was spared, but I was permanently paralyzed from the waist down. Sitting in that wheelchair, looking at my innocent daughter, I felt despair for the first time. I tried to contact Simona, wanting to send Phoebe back to her, but her phone number was disconnected. I finally found out through inquiries that she had moved to another city for work. I dragged my broken body and my daughter to a dilapidated tenement building. To survive, I learned to do handicrafts in my wheelchair and shamefully set up a small table on the street. It was the kindness of our neighbors—a shared meal, a handed-down piece of clothing—that helped us barely scrape by for another two years. But misery loves company. Two years later, I was diagnosed with leukemia. The doctor told me I had, at most, three months left. The day I got the diagnosis, I wheeled myself out of the hospital, my heart dead. At the hospital entrance, I ran into Logan, whom I hadn’t seen in years. He was well-dressed and healthy-looking. I wept, begging him to find Simona and give Phoebe to her. I tremblingly wrote a short letter, pressing it into his hand, pleading with Simona to take care of Phoebe for the sake of their mother-daughter bond. Logan took the letter, looking at me with what I took to be deep pity. He promised me he would find Simona. I believed him. I spent the next three months in agony, clinging to that final, weak hope. Three months later, I died. And my Phoebe never saw Simona. I had always thought that Logan hadn’t been able to find her. Only now, seeing him as Simona’s husband, did I realize: He never delivered the letter. “What’s wrong?” Simona’s sleepy voice suddenly broke through my painful memory. Logan’s body jerked. The next second, he quickly turned, his face instantly shifting into a perfectly crafted mask of panic and concern. “Sav! Come quickly! Phoebe looks sick!” Simona’s face changed. She rushed into the cramped spare room. “To the hospital!” Simona acted decisively, wrapping Phoebe tightly in a blanket and picking her up. Logan scrambled to follow. The lights in the late-night ER were stark and pale. The doctor examined the injury, frowned deeply, and sighed with a touch of exasperation. “This girl, she was fighting again, wasn’t she?” “The injury is serious this time. The infection caused the high fever. Any later, and it might have been really bad.” Simona keenly picked up on the information in the doctor’s words. Her brows furrowed. “You know her?” The doctor looked up at Simona. “Yes, this child is here every few months.” “Her father died of leukemia seven or eight years ago. She has no family to care for her, so she’s been scratching out a living on her own. It’s not easy…” Simona froze, her face a mask of disbelief. “What!? Leukemia?”