a laugh.
“She changed it.”
No one laughed with her.
Fiona pointed at me.
“She had access.
She altered the file because she has always been jealous of me.”
My father nodded immediately, grateful for a version of events in which his favorite daughter remained heroic.
“That makes sense,” he said.
“Joselyn has resented Fiona since they were children.”
I felt an old ache beneath my ribs, but it no longer had the power it once did.
My father had spent years mistaking my silence for weakness and Fiona’s performance for character.
Hearing him do it again did not surprise me.
Captain Grant opened a document pouch he had carried under his arm.
“This is the working copy,” he said, indicating the folder in my hands.
“The archival copy was sealed two years ago and stored under independent chain-of-custody procedures.”
He removed a smaller envelope marked with tamper-evident tape.
“Chief Pierce did not know Candidate 47-19 was her sister when the initial observations were filed.
Candidates were processed under identification numbers, and Chief Pierce recused herself immediately after the identity match was discovered.”
Donovan looked at me.
“You didn’t know?”
“Not during the first phase.”
Fiona shook her head rapidly.
“That’s a lie.”
Captain Grant broke the seal and withdrew a signed review.
“Three instructors confirmed the same violations independently,” he said.
“Two of them had no relationship with Chief Pierce.
The removal decision was approved by the course commander.”
He handed the paper to Donovan.
Fiona stepped toward him.
“Don’t read that.”
He did.
His jaw tightened as his eyes moved down the page.
The report was clinical, almost cold.
Fiona had submitted altered range figures after missing the qualifying threshold.
She had entered an administrative area without authorization and photographed an evaluation sheet.
When confronted, she blamed another candidate.
Security footage disproved her account.
She had been removed before the advanced stalking phase.
The exercise she had described over dinner—the frozen terrain, the hidden observation post, the impossible final shot—had occurred three weeks after she left.
She had not endured it badly.
She had never endured it at all.
Donovan lowered the page.
“You told me Wraith passed you personally.”
Fiona’s eyes flicked toward me.
“I did pass,” she insisted.
“Maybe not in that exact course.
There were other evaluations.”
I opened the folder to the page containing my own notes.
Candidate 47-19 displayed strong mechanical ability but repeatedly sacrificed procedure for appearance.
When challenged, candidate redirected blame.
Recommend removal pending integrity review.
The handwriting was mine.
The signature beneath it was a call sign rather than my surname.
WRAITH.
Donovan read it without touching the page.
His gaze moved slowly from the signature to my face.
“You were Wraith.”
“Yes.”
Malcolm, his uncle, exhaled softly behind him.
“That explains the dinner question.”
I nodded.
“The shot she described was impossible for the conditions she gave you.
Wrong wind direction, wrong position, wrong target sequence.”
Fiona’s voice sharpened.
“You set me up.”
“No.
You told the story.”
She looked around for support.
Several relatives lowered their phones, suddenly uncomfortable with their role in the spectacle.
My father did not lower his voice.
“So she embellished,” he said.
“People exaggerate stories.
That doesn’t prove the badge is fake.”
Every eye returned to the metal pinned above Fiona’s pocket.
Its
