That night, I sat in Lucille’s kitchen as she closed the bakery, drinking tea and watching her prepare dough for the morning.
“You should try to eat something,” she said, nodding toward the sandwich she’d made me. “You need your strength.”
“I’m not hungry.” I hadn’t had an appetite since Nicholas died. Food was fuel now. Nothing more.
“Heard Melissa’s staying at the Milfield Inn,” Lucille said, kneading with practiced movements. “Brandon’s still at the house. People are talking.”
“Let them talk.”
The small-town grapevine had always annoyed my children, but now it served me. Every move they made, I knew about it within hours.
“Sophia’s article runs tomorrow,” Lucille continued. “Front page. Got a call from the Philadelphia Inquirer, too. They want to pick up the story. Something about the developer having trouble with other projects.”
I nodded, unsurprised. Robert’s call had confirmed what I’d suspected. Platinum Acres had a pattern of targeting vulnerable landowners, particularly the elderly, with promises they never intended to keep.
