My 14-year-old daughter Maya spent six hours baking 40 homemade apple pies for the local Pine Ridge Senior Residence.
I rushed home, Samuel’s words echoing in my mind. He was staying at the Old Mill B&B, just a few blocks away. My mind was racing, a new plan already forming.
Then my phone buzzed. It was a local news alert, something unprecedented for Oakwood.
“Pine Ridge Senior Residence Initiates Immediate Quarantine Protocol. Visitors Barred, All Deliveries Suspended.”
The headline confirmed my worst fears: Chloe was clamping down. This wasn’t just about public perception anymore; it was about destroying every last piece of evidence.
I paced my kitchen, the silence unnerving. Maya was upstairs, trying to distract herself with a book, but I knew she was listening.
Then, an unfamiliar number flashed on my screen. I almost didn’t answer, fearing another veiled threat from Chloe’s attorney.
“Hello?” I said, my voice tight.
A shaky, raspy voice replied. “Eleanor? Is that you, dear? It’s Martha Higgins. From Pine Ridge.”
Martha. An 82-year-old resident, feisty and sharp.
“Martha, are you alright?” I asked, my heart pounding. “How are you calling me?”
“I’m fine, mostly,” she whispered. “My grandson, bless his tech-savvy heart, smuggled me this burner phone for my poker games. Smart boy.”
A small laugh escaped her, then she grew serious. “Listen, dear, something odd is happening here. Chloe put the whole place on lockdown. Said it was for a ‘sanitation emergency.’ But then she came over the intercom, loud as you please, ordering everyone to ‘collect and dispose of any remaining apple pie containers immediately’.”
My stomach clenched. “She’s trying to get rid of them.”
“That’s what I figured,” Martha said. “Saw some staff rushing around with big trash bags, heading for the industrial furnace out back. They were very specific about the pie boxes.”
“Did you…?” I started, barely daring to hope.
“Before those big burly security guards searched my room, I tucked three of those pretty boxes right into my mini-freezer, under the frozen peas,” she said, a hint of defiance in her voice. “They were so focused on my medicine cabinet, they never even looked. My little rebellion, you see.”
A wave of relief washed over me so strong I almost sagged against the counter. Three boxes. Still intact.
“They’re sealed up tight, too, Eleanor,” Martha added. “Right there with my ice cream and my emergency chocolate. I figured you’d want them back. They looked so pretty, and Maya worked so hard.”
“Martha, you are a lifesaver,” I whispered, tears pricking my eyes. “How can I get them?”
“They’ve got guards all over the front,” she explained. “But there’s an old section of the fence, by the back path to the woods. It’s a bit loose. I could slip them out after dark, around ten, when the night shift takes over and things get quiet.”
“I’ll be there,” I promised, feeling a surge of determination. Chloe thought she could erase everything, but she had underestimated the resilience of an 82-year-old woman and the quiet rebellion of a town that was beginning to notice.
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