Chapter 5 - Seventy-Three People and One Folding Table
Paige chose to meet at the public library, which told me she'd thought about this before sending her message. She was twenty-seven, wore bright orange glasses, and had edited our holiday videos for three years. Today she carried no camera. She set a notebook on the table and folded her hands over it.
“Before anything else,” she said, “I can't hand over a client's raw footage just because you ask.”
“I wouldn't ask you to. I want to know whether somebody used my words to tell a lie.”
Paige nodded. “They did.”
In my original interview, she'd asked why the Long Table mattered. I'd told her about Mrs. Fulton, about a waiter named Calvin who had started volunteering after losing his brother, and about how loneliness made people believe every door was locked for a reason. I'd ended by saying, “One person can't keep every door open. The community has to decide it wants this one.”
“In the rough cut,” Paige said, “Vanessa kept the first sentence but removed the community part. Then she had me record a narration saying you'd stepped away to let the next generation take over.”
“Did you record it?”
“I recorded a scratch track, because she said she was still confirming the facts. I refused to deliver the finished version when I realized the statement wasn't true.”
“Does Claire Weller know?”
“Claire's assistant requested the cut with that wording. I can't tell you what Claire personally saw.”
I appreciated that she wouldn't give me a villain without evidence, even though I wanted one. Paige showed me an email on her own screen. Vanessa's instructions were unmistakable: Remove Nora from founder montage. The wedding family-table shot should show succession without complication.
“Would you share that with the independent reviewer if she requests it through the proper channels?” I asked.
“Yes. I want the record to show what I did, too.”
“Thank you.”
Paige looked miserable. “I should have checked sooner.”
“So should several people. You're one of the first who actually stopped.”
On the way back, Eddie called. Aster's transition manager had arrived early and told the morning crew that the kitchen would close at four for inventory. Staff had been given new applications. He wanted to know whether to sign.
“Don't tell anyone to quit,” I said. “Let them read everything. Keep your own copies. I'm coming.”
The transition manager was a young man named Owen Fitch. He wore a fitted navy coat, held a tablet, and looked as though the smell of bacon might breach company policy. He was standing by the grill when I arrived.
“Ms. Mercer,” he said. “We weren't expecting you.”
“I'm scheduled today.”
“Our documents say you departed in January.”
“Then your documents are wrong.”
He checked his tablet. “I'm instructed to redirect operational questions to your sister.”
“My sister is not here. The staff is.”
Eddie stood behind me. Keisha had paused beside the dishwasher. It mattered that they were listening. I needed to be certain I didn't promise them something I couldn't deliver.
“You can review inventory after service,” I told Owen. “Please give us written notice of any changes affecting wages or schedules. The owner can settle disputed authority with your company.”
He looked relieved that I hadn't threatened him. “I'll contact my supervisor.”
“Good.”
He retreated to the office. Eddie let out a breath. “You sounded like you knew exactly what to say.”
“I was guessing carefully.”
At noon, Mrs. Fulton came to the front door with a cardboard box of napkins. “I hear tomorrow's dinner is the last one,” she said.
“Not tomorrow. We served yesterday. Next Sunday is the problem.”
She studied me. “I can make sandwiches.”
“Mrs. Fulton, you don't need to feed us.”
“That's a funny thing to say to a woman you feed every week.”
By the end of the afternoon, Aunt Joyce had found a community firehouse willing to let us use its meeting room the following Sunday, provided we could bring food prepared in an approved kitchen. A church offered refrigerated storage. Calvin knew a culinary school that rented cooking space. I called each contact myself and asked about cost, access, and capacity. A free meal that made guests climb stairs or ride three buses wouldn't be much of a solution.
We moved a folding table outside the Blue Lantern after closing. Grandma sat at one end, helping us write names on paper bags. Volunteers packed bread and fruit for neighbors whose mobility kept them home. No logo, no investor, just names and routes.
A black SUV stopped across the street. Vanessa got out in sunglasses that made her look famous instead of tired. She approached our folding table and stared at the bags.
“You can't keep using the Blue Lantern name for a competing service,” she said.
“This is food we promised people.”
“Everything's a promise with you. Do you ever calculate what it costs?”
“Yes. Every week. There's a spreadsheet if you'd like to read it.”
Grandma looked up. “Sit down, Vanessa. Help tie these bags.”
“I'm not here to pack sandwiches.”
“I know why you're here. I'm inviting you to do something else.”
Vanessa's face shifted. For one second she looked like the girl who used to sit beside Grandma after school, trying to knot pastry strings with small determined hands. Then her phone rang. She glanced at the caller and backed away.
As she climbed into the SUV, Paige texted me again. The revised marketing video had appeared on Aster's private investor portal, using her scratch narration without her approval. It now included a sentence in Vanessa's voice: My sister left after questions were raised about missing program funds.
I read the message twice, feeling the air leave my lungs. A chair could be dragged away in a moment. A sentence like that could follow me for years.
May you like
I set down the bag I was tying and opened my notebook. I wrote the exact words, the time, and where Paige said she'd seen them. Then I called Marisol.
“Find Danielle Cho,” I said. “We need someone independent to look at every dollar. Starting now.”
