Liars. It's all you can think of, how they lied to you for so long.
They didn't even have the courage to warn you. You're lying in a hospital bed, a soft beeping of machines beside you. One of your brothers is in the next room, talking to the doctor about what they've already told you.
It was a complication from that car accident you were in when you were young, back again to haunt you and bringing a nasty surprise along with it. The doctors have informed you that you'll make a full recovery, but it doesn't matter. They had to use someone else's blood, because the type your brother tried to donate didn't match.
You feel stupid. Aren't you meant to be a detective? Isn't that your job? What did you think, that you were just a genetic anomaly, that looking different meant nothing?
It's a severing of ties, really, and it almost feels like a release, as much as it hurts. You know you likely won't have more than one more conversation with your parents for a long, long time, and it's made you face something you never wanted to consider - that they were never much good at their jobs. At being parents, that is. At being involved in your life in more than a cursory way, involved enough to say, tell you something this important rather than letting you find out in a way that could have cost you your life.
What now? Well, you're a detective. If you're not a part of this family, you're a part of someone's. You'll find out whose. You still hold a small hope that, after this, things will get better. When you find them, you'll understand at last while you've always felt like an outsider in any room you've stood in, all your life.