🥧 The Forty Pies Before Sunrise

Chapter 02 - The Pie with the Missing Slice

The day before the police came, Lila Price had believed the worst thing that could happen at St. Jude Senior Living was that her cherry filling might leak.

She had carried that worry like a real disaster, both hands wrapped around a foil-covered pie, walking behind the volunteer coordinator through beige halls that smelled of furniture polish, boiled coffee, and the faint lemon cleaner every nursing home in Ohio seemed to use.

“Smile, honey,” Marcy Cole had said over her shoulder. “Some of our residents don’t get visitors. A sweet face helps.”

Lila smiled because that was what she did when grown-ups told her to. She was fourteen, thin as a reed, with long blonde hair she had pulled into a ponytail that morning and lost control of by noon. She had a kind face, people said. Rowan said kindness was good, but it needed a spine.

Lila was still working on the spine.

St. Jude’s activity room had paper sunflowers taped to the windows and a television mounted too high in one corner, whispering game show music to nobody. Residents sat in wheelchairs or at small round tables, some chatting, some sleeping, some staring out at the parking lot like they expected a car that had not come in years.

Lila’s chest hurt a little.

She had spent three Saturdays organizing the pie project through school. Her classmates had promised to help, then vanished when homecoming planning got more exciting than crimping crusts. So Rowan had tied on an apron after her diner shift, and the two of them had baked until midnight.

Forty pies.

Because the resident list had forty names.

No one was getting left out.

“Apple for Mr. Donnelly,” Lila said, checking her notes. “Peach for Miss Nadine. Sugar-free pumpkin for Mr. Paulson.”

“That one over there,” Marcy said, nodding toward a corner table. “Blueberry. Room 214. Agnes Whitfield.”

The woman sat alone, straight-backed despite the blanket over her lap. Her white hair was twisted neatly at the back of her head. She wore a lavender cardigan, pearl earrings, and the kind of expression Lila associated with retired teachers who could spot gum from across a gymnasium.

Her hands, though, shook around her teacup.

Lila approached carefully. “Mrs. Whitfield? I brought your blueberry pie.”

The woman looked up.

The change in her face was so sudden Lila nearly dropped the pie.

Agnes Whitfield’s eyes widened. Not with confusion. With recognition.

“June,” the old woman whispered.

Lila glanced behind her. “No, ma’am. I’m Lila.”

Agnes blinked, and pain crossed her face like a shadow from a passing cloud. “Of course you are.”

“I can put this here.” Lila set the pie on the table. “My mom made the crust. I did the filling.”

“Your mother,” Agnes said.

Something about the way she said it made Lila stop arranging napkins.

“My mom’s name is Rowan.”

Agnes closed her eyes.

The game show crowd on the television applauded for an answer nobody in the room cared about.

“Rowan,” Agnes repeated, as if tasting a word she had once hidden under her tongue. “She would be… yes. She would be grown now.”

Lila felt the first pinprick of unease. “Do you know my mom?”

Before Agnes could answer, a man stepped into the activity room.

He wore a red tie.

Not bright red. Expensive red. Deep and glossy, like a wine stain on a white tablecloth. He had gray hair at the temples, a practiced smile, and a phone in one hand that he kept checking as if every minute belonged to him and everyone else had borrowed it.

Marcy Cole straightened when she saw him.

“Mr. Whitfield,” she said. “We weren’t expecting you until four.”

“I had a cancellation.” His eyes moved to Agnes. “Aunt Agnes and I have paperwork to discuss.”

Agnes’s hand tightened around Lila’s wrist.

It was not a gentle old-lady touch.

It was a warning.

Lila looked down.

Agnes slid something small against her palm. A folded piece of stationery, warm from the old woman’s hand.

“Not here,” Agnes whispered. “Not him.”

Mr. Whitfield’s smile sharpened when he saw Lila. “And who’s this?”

“One of our school volunteers,” Marcy said too quickly.

Lila pulled her hand back and curled her fingers around the note. “I brought pie.”

“How generous.” He took one step closer to Agnes. “Aunt Agnes, we talked about this. No private conversations with strangers.”

Agnes lifted her chin. “A child with blueberry on her sleeve is not a stranger, Warren.”

That made his smile disappear for half a second.

Lila noticed.

She also noticed the dark bruise on Agnes’s wrist, half-hidden beneath her cardigan cuff. It might have been from a blood draw. It might have been from a fall.

Or it might not.

Rowan had taught Lila not to make stories out of shadows. But she had also taught her not to ignore shadows when they moved.

Marcy guided Lila away. “Come on, honey. Lots of people waiting for dessert.”

Lila wanted to ask questions.

Instead, she walked to the next table and handed Mr. Donnelly his apple pie with the note pressed inside her fist.

At four-thirty, after most of the pies had been served and the activity room had thinned, Lila slipped into the hallway to find the restroom. She passed Room 214 and stopped when she heard voices inside.

Warren’s voice.

Low and polished, but no longer pleasant.

“You have until morning,” he said. “Either you sign the competency transfer, or Marcy documents another episode. Your choice.”

Agnes answered, but Lila could barely hear her.

Then Warren said a name that made Lila’s skin go cold.

“Rowan Price will never know what you are to her.”

Lila stumbled backward, heart knocking against her ribs.

Her elbow hit the wall.

The phone in her cardigan pocket lit up. She had forgotten it was still recording video from the pie delivery montage she had promised her teacher.

The little red dot blinked in the corner of the screen.

Recording.

From inside Room 214, Warren stopped speaking.