Chapter 11LARK #2
His mouth pulls into a thin line, like he’s already anticipating my reaction. “That’s not what I have in my report.”
My stomach plummets.
I shake my head, frowning. “I’m sorry, what?”
He adjusts his glasses, tucking a finger into the pages and lifting them slightly, as if giving me a glimpse will somehow make this easier to process. “According to our records, The Bluebell Diner failed its most recent health inspection.”
A sharp, ringing sound fills my ears. I blink, staring at him, the words not computing.
Failed?
“That’s impossible,” I say. “The inspector came through, checked everything, and before she left, she told me we passed with no problem.”
He doesn’t look fazed. If anything, he looks like a man who’s heard every excuse in the book.
“I understand this is unexpected,” he says carefully, flipping through his papers, “but the official report states otherwise. The inspection flagged multiple violations, including improper food storage, evidence of rodent droppings in the dry goods pantry, and issues with temperature regulation in your refrigeration units.”
I blink at him.
The words feel so absurd that I don’t know whether to laugh or throw up.
Rodent droppings? Food storage violations?
Is this a fucking joke?
My head shakes before I even realize it. “No,” I say firmly, my voice rising. “That’s wrong. That didn’t happen. I was with her the entire time. She checked our storage, our refrigeration, everything. If something was off, she would have told me.”
Darren gives me a measured look, like he’s waiting for me to catch up to something he already knows.
I already know where this is going.
Wendell fucking Tate.
My skin heats, not just with panic now, but with fury.
I tighten my arms over my chest. “I don’t know what paperwork you have, but it’s wrong. This place has never had a failed inspection.”
His expression doesn’t change. “Regardless, I have to go by what’s filed.”
I can feel the weight of eyes on me—regulars with their half-empty coffee cups paused midair, forks hovering over plates, pretending not to listen but hanging onto every word.
My pulse is hammering so hard in my throat that it drowns out the normal buzz of conversation, the soft clinking of silverware, the scrape of a chair leg against the floor.
Dawn stands behind the counter, arms crossed tight over her chest, watching me with an expression that’s a mix of concern and barely restrained fury.
I shift my gaze back to Darren Montgomery, forcing myself to keep my expression neutral even though I can feel the heat rising in my face, my fingers curling into my sides to keep from outright shaking.
He sighs, flipping through the stack of papers like maybe he doesn’t want to be standing here either. Like he’s just another cog in the system, following orders.
I straighten my shoulders. “How do I appeal this?”
His brow lifts, just slightly. “An appeal?”
I nod, chin tipped up. “If I failed—which, for the record, I didn’t—then I should be able to dispute the claim. There has to be a process.”
Darren sighs, flipping another page. “You can request a secondary inspection, but given the number of violations, your diner will remain closed in the meantime.”
The words hit me like a slap. Closed.
The breath rushes out of me, sharp and fast. “For how long?”
“That depends.” He tucks the papers neatly back into his portfolio, like this is just another box to check off before lunch.
“Typically, business closures due to health code violations take anywhere from a few weeks to a couple of months, depending on the severity of the issues and how quickly they’re resolved. ”
A few weeks. Maybe longer.
I hear Dawn inhale sharply from behind the counter. My stomach drops.
“I suggest you read through the report thoroughly,” Darren continues. “If you’d like to move forward with an appeal, you’ll need to submit a request in writing to the health department within seven business days. In the meantime, I’ll have to post the notice.”
His gaze flicks to the front window, like he’s already picturing where the bright orange sign is going to go.
A health department closure sign. Right there on the front door, for the whole town to see.
A slow, creeping nausea rolls through me, my hands going clammy.
“This is a mistake,” I say again, but my voice is quieter this time.
Darren meets my gaze, his expression unreadable. “Then I suggest you prove it. ”
He nods once, then steps past me, portfolio tucked neatly under his arm, heading for the door.
I stand there, rooted to the floor, my mind spinning, my pulse roaring in my ears.
This can’t be happening.
But as I watch him tape that orange CLOSED BY ORDER OF THE REDWOOD COUNTY HEALTH DEPARTMENT notice to my window, I realize it is.
The bright orange sign glares back at me, the blocky black letters stark against the glass. A death sentence.
The murmur of voices behind me grows louder—regulars whispering, Dawn cursing under her breath, Finn shifting awkwardly near the counter.
My skin prickles with the weight of their stares, but I can’t move, can’t turn around, can’t do anything but watch as Darren smooths the tape down with the flat of his palm, sealing my fate.
When he steps back, he glances at me one last time. Not smug, not cruel—just detached.
“If you have any questions, the number for the department is on the notice.” Then, with a small nod, he walks out.
The bell above the door chimes like it’s just another ordinary customer leaving.
It’s not.
It feels final.
Like a door closing.
Like everything I’ve helped build is being stripped away, piece by piece, right in front of me and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.
I swallow against the tightness in my throat, forcing my feet to move. I step forward, just enough to press my fingers against the glass, as if touching it will somehow make it less real.
But the sign doesn’t disappear. The diner doesn’t magically reopen. The numbers in my bank account don’t suddenly rearrange themselves into something that can fix this.
Behind me, Dawn clears her throat. Her voice is softer than usual when she says, “Lark.”
I don’t turn around.
I can’t.
I just stand there, staring at the closed sign on the door of my diner, my home, my last piece of Alice.
And I have no idea what the hell I’m going to do next.
**********
The front door slams open, rattling the walls, and Miller comes charging in like she’s about to drag me out of a burning building.
I don’t look up.
My laptop is balanced on my knees, my fingers hovering over the trackpad as I reread the same health department regulations for the fifth time, hoping I’ve somehow missed something that will fix all of this.
“I swear to God, Lark.” Her voice is sharp, breathless, like she rushed here. “Why the hell did I just drive by the Bluebell and see a health department notice taped to the door?”
I keep my eyes on my laptop, my fingers clicking through the appeal process. “I haven’t had time to call you,” I mutter.
Miller lets out a sharp ha , the kind that means she doesn’t believe a damn word I just said.
I keep my eyes on the screen, scrolling through an appeal form I’ve already started filling out twice.
She marches across the room and drops onto the couch next to me, tucking one leg underneath her, shaking her head the entire time. “That’s bullshit.”
I type something into a field, delete it, type it again. “It’s not bullshit. I’ve been dealing with it.”
She watches me, unimpressed. “Oh, right. Dealing with it. Is that why you’re sitting in the dark, refreshing the health department website?”
“Miller, I don’t have time to do this with you right now. ”
“Do what?” She gestures toward my laptop. “Have me point out that this is the worst plan ever? Because it is. This is objectively the worst plan ever.”
I snap the laptop shut, twisting toward her. “And what exactly do you suggest I do? Let the Bluebell go under? Just throw my hands up and say, ‘Oh well, guess it was a good run’?”
She rolls her eyes. “Jesus, the drama. No, I suggest you stop white-knuckling this shit like it’s your personal burden to bear. There are other people who can help.”
I shake my head, jaw tightening. “Like who, Miller? The fucking health department? Wendell Tate? Because as far as I can tell, they’re the only people involved in this little game, and I am losing. Badly.”
She stares at me for a long beat, then suddenly leans forward, snatches my laptop off my lap, and tosses it onto the coffee table.
I blink at her. “Are you serious?”
Miller shrugs, crossing her arms. “Yeah, actually. Watching you spiral is exhausting.”
A sharp, humorless laugh bubbles up in my throat. “Well, sorry for the inconvenience.”
She shakes her head. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”
The irritation boils over before I can stop it. Everything is too much. The money, the Bluebell, the fucking smug look I know Wendell Tate is wearing right now.
“You don’t get it, Miller,” I say. “I don’t have the luxury of sitting around and waiting for someone to fix this for me. I can’t just sit around and do nothing.”
Miller tilts her head. “You do nothing about as well as I do subtle.”
I scoff. “I don’t have time for this.”
She gestures dramatically toward the dark room. “Yeah, you seem super busy. You’ve been sitting here in your feelings for how long now?”
I shove off the couch, pacing toward the kitchen, hands on my hips, pulse pounding. “Do you ever shut the hell up, Miller?”
“Not when I’m right, no.” She leans forward, completely unfazed, resting her elbows on her knees. “If you want to sit here and spiral, be my guest. But at some point, you’re gonna have to do something that actually helps.”
I grip the edge of the counter, pressing my fingers hard into the wood.
Her voice softens, just enough. “You know who else is really good at fixing things?”
I squeeze my eyes shut. “Don’t.”
“You should probably call him.”
“Jesus, Miller—”