“You already did.”
Darlene answered on the second ring.
I put her on speaker.
I asked whether anyone had contacted the community health archive that afternoon.
“Yes,” Darlene said.
“A woman said she was your assistant and that you had authorized her to collect old recordings for a family media project.”
Fallon’s jaw tightened.
Darlene continued.
“They didn’t release anything.
I asked them not to until they spoke directly with you.”
That explained why Fallon was still on the telephone when I found her.
She had been trying to talk around the safeguard Darlene had quietly placed in front of her.
I thanked Darlene and ended the call.
Fallon stood.
“You’re making this sound criminal.”
“I haven’t called it anything.
I’m asking you what you did.”
“I made a podcast.”
“With recordings taken from private family conversations.”
“Ellis was testing equipment.
Everyone knew there was a microphone.”
“Knowing a microphone exists is not the same as agreeing to become your content.”
She opened her mouth, but I raised one hand.
I had spent years allowing Fallon to finish every sentence simply because she was willing to speak louder than everyone else.
I wasn’t going to compete with her volume anymore.
“Sit down.”
Something in my voice made her do it.
I asked her to show me the project files containing my recordings.
She refused.
I asked whether Ellis knew she was using them.
Her silence answered before she did.
“He knew I was using family material,” she finally said.
“He didn’t approve every edit.”
That distinction was important to her.
It wasn’t important to me.
She reached for her laptop.
I closed it first.
“You’re leaving.”
“Lenora—”
“Now.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“You know, this reaction is exactly what I’ve been talking about.
Control.
Punishment.
The refusal to hear another woman’s experience.”
That sentence might once have sent me into a panic.
I would have tried to prove I was kind.
I would have explained myself until she found a new sentence to use against me.
Instead, I slid the plastic birthday bracelet from my pocket and placed it beside her laptop.
I had carried it there without quite knowing why.
“Three days ago,” I said, “you gave your mother a diamond and handed me this in front of a yard full of people.
I thought the bracelet was the message.
Now I understand it was only decoration.”
She looked at the cupcake charm but said nothing.
“The real message was that you believed I would accept whatever version of me you handed to the room.”
For once, Fallon had no polished response.
