CHAPTER FIVE: LUCILLE’S NAME

Levi’s mother arrived at the library meeting room with a grocery bag full of photographs.
Her name was Denise Price.
She worked at a postal sorting center and spoke with the exhausted precision of somebody who had spent decades correcting other people’s mistakes.
“I attended because they said my mother’s recipes would be remembered,” she told Gideon.
“She cooked at Eastbank every Saturday when the recreation center held community meals.”
Denise spread photographs across the table.
In one, Lucille Price stood beside a long row of aluminum trays, laughing with a girl holding a wooden spoon.
“That’s me,” Denise said.
“I was fifteen.”
Talia asked permission to inspect the original invitation.
Denise handed it over.
The invitation promised that submissions would be used only to prepare a neighborhood memory collection.


“What did you tell the staff?” Ethan asked.
“I described my mother,” Denise replied.
“I told them she believed everybody deserved a place to sit.”
“Did you say anything about converting Eastbank into offices?” Gideon asked.
Denise stared at him.
“My mother fought to keep that center open when the city tried to sell it.”
“She would have hated the idea.”
Levi pushed the sample page toward her.
Denise read the fabricated endorsement attributed to Lucille.
Her hand went rigid against the paper.
“These aren’t her words,” she said.
“They aren’t mine either.”
For several moments she could not speak.
Then she reached for the photographs and stacked them carefully.
“Who wrote this?”
Gideon did not pretend to know.
He explained that Victor had been managing the events and that outside organizers might also be involved.


“We are establishing who prepared the text and where it was distributed,” he said.
Denise looked at Ethan.
“And you’re the waiter who got fired?”
“Yes.”
“Why are you here?”
“Because Levi showed me her name.”
Denise nodded once.
“Then you’re here for the right reason.”
A man at the next table stood abruptly.
He had arrived ten minutes earlier and had been listening without joining the conversation.
“That’s not the version we were given,” he said.
He introduced himself as Simon Vale, a freelance event coordinator hired to organize tomorrow’s dinner.
He said Victor had supplied the memorial texts already approved.
“I booked the musicians and arranged the seating,” Simon explained.
“I didn’t interview the families.”
He slid a folded program onto the table.
Its cover read VOICES OF EASTBANK.
Inside were statements supposedly endorsed by fourteen deceased residents and their surviving relatives.
At the end appeared a list of living supporters.
Denise saw her own name there.
Her face hardened.
“I did not sign up for this.”
Simon swallowed.
“Neither did half the people who called me this morning.”