Chương 7
Now everyone had opinions.
Now Fiona had to live without the version of herself she had spent years protecting.
And I had to figure out who I was when I was no longer fighting to be heard.
A week after the diner with Arthur, I received an unexpected email from the training office.
The subject line was simple.
Request for clarification.
I stared at it for several minutes before opening it.
My first instinct was suspicion.
That was something I had learned from my family.
When people suddenly wanted to talk after ignoring you for years, it was usually because they needed something.
The email was not accusing me.
It was asking for documentation.
They wanted to verify the timeline surrounding Fiona's evaluation and the origin of the badge.
I read it twice.
Then a third time.
The strange thing was that I did not feel victorious.
A month earlier, I imagined this moment differently.
I imagined people finally admitting I was right.
I imagined Fiona embarrassed.
I imagined Arthur understanding everything.
Instead, I felt tired.
Because being right did not erase the fact that my sister was hurting.
I replied with the information I had.
Dates.
Records.
Names.
Nothing emotional.
Just facts.
That was the part of myself I trusted most.
The part that did not need anyone to like the answer.
Two days later, Fiona called.
"Did they contact you?"
"Yes."
She was quiet.
"I thought they might."
"How are you?"
The question sounded strange between us.
For years, we rarely asked questions that required honest answers.
"Weird," she said.
I smiled slightly.
"That sounds like you."
"What does that mean?"
"You always know how to describe impossible situations."
She laughed softly.
It was the first time I had heard her laugh without performing.
"I deserved that."
"Probably."
Another small laugh.
Then silence.
"I have to go in tomorrow."
"To the office?"
"Yes."
"For the review?"
"Yes."
I waited.
She did too.
Finally, she said, "I'm scared."
That sentence stayed with me.
Not because Fiona admitting fear was unusual.
Because she had spent her entire life pretending fear was something other people experienced.
"I know."
"No speech about being brave?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because you don't need one."
The line went quiet.
"I think I spent years trying to prove I wasn't afraid," she said.
"You did."
"I thought if I admitted it, everyone would see I wasn't special."
I looked out my apartment window.
The city moved below me.
People rushing home.
Someone walking a dog that clearly wanted to stop at every tree.
A delivery driver checking an address twice.
Everyone carrying something nobody else could see.
"You know what I think?" I said.
"What?"
"I think everyone is afraid."
She was quiet.
"The difference is some people are better at hiding it."
After we hung up, I sat there longer than I expected.
I thought about Fiona as a child.
Not the Fiona everyone saw now.
The one who used to sneak into my room when storms were loud.
She hated thunder.
She would pretend she was checking if I was awake, but I always knew.
She would sit on the floor beside my bed until the storm passed.
Somewhere along the way, she became someone who believed needing comfort was a weakness.
I wondered when that happened.
I wondered if anyone noticed.
The review process took longer than expected.
That did not surprise me.
People often imagined institutions moved quickly when truth appeared.
They did not.
There were procedures.
Forms.
Meetings.
People who needed context before making decisions.
That was frustrating.
But it was also fair.
A person's life could not be changed because someone brought a folder to a backyard party.
Even if the folder contained the truth.
A month later, Fiona asked me to meet her.
This time, she chose the place.
A shooting range.
Not my father's.
A public one outside the city.
I almost refused.
The last place I wanted to be was near a range.
But something about the invitation felt important.
When I arrived, Fiona was standing near the entrance.
She was wearing ordinary clothes.
No uniform.
No badge.
No symbol.
Just Fiona.
She looked uncomfortable.
"Hi."
"Hi."
For a moment, we both stood there like strangers.
Then she looked at the building.
"I thought about never coming back to a place like this."
"Why did you?"
She shrugged.
"Because running away is what I did before."
That answer surprised me.
Inside, the range was busy.
People practicing.
Instructors helping beginners.
A father explaining safety rules to a teenager who looked like he was trying very hard not to appear nervous.
Life continuing.
Again.
Fiona rented a lane.
She did not ask me to shoot.
She did not challenge me.
She simply picked up the equipment, checked everything carefully, and followed the safety process.
Slowly.
Methodically.
I watched her.
Not because I was looking for mistakes.
Because I was trying to understand.
"You know," she said, "I actually was good."
I looked at her.
"At shooting?"
She nodded.
"I wasn't lying about everything."
"I know."
"I was good."
"I believe you."
She lowered her eyes.
"That almost makes it worse."
"Why?"
"Because I had something real."
The words came quietly.
"And I still ruined it."
I leaned against the wall.
That was the part nobody outside our family understood.
The easiest story was that Fiona was fake.
It was satisfying.
Simple.
But real people were rarely simple.
Someone could be talented and dishonest.
Someone could be impressive and insecure.
Someone could love their family and still hurt them.
"You know what bothered me the most?" I asked.
She looked at me.
"The way you talked about me."
Her face tightened.
"I know."
"No, I don't think you do."
She waited.
"You made me smaller because you needed yourself to look bigger."
She nodded slowly.
"I know."
This time, I believed she did.
"I was jealous of you."
I frowned.
"Me?"
"Yes."
May you like
The answer almost made me laugh.
"You had no idea what I was doing."
