When I Died, My Father was with His Adopted Daughter

After Dad and my sister finished dinner, he probably remembered Jerry’s suspicions and flipped through his contacts to call me.

I clearly saw him scrolling through the phone, and the note for Jenny read “My Darling Daughter,” deepening the bitterness in my heart.

Dad tried to call me three times, but each time there was no answer.

His patience seemed to have reached its limit, and he couldn’t help but curse, his voice filled with anger and disappointment.

The phone felt heavy in his hand as he gripped it tightly, as if he wanted to crush it.

“Called three times and still no answer; Jenny really has some nerve!” His voice was slightly hoarse, revealing endless anxiety and fatigue.

I quietly watched him, feeling helpless and heartbroken.

I wanted to explain, to comfort him, but I couldn’t; my soul felt incredibly heavy and confused at that moment.

Just then, Dad’s phone screen suddenly lit up with a message from the forensics department.

A clear photo of a necklace appeared, glinting ominously.

Dad looked at the picture in disbelief.

He glanced at the necklace around my sister’s neck; it was identical to the one I had.

The forensics department stated that the necklace had only the victim’s fingerprints on it, found clutched tightly in my hand, suggesting it was something the victim cherished in life.

Dad stood up, knocking over the bench, muttering “impossible,” and continued to call me, still no answer.