I didn’t sleep much after listening to the tape. I kept hearing Trudi’s voice—steady, respectful, interrupted. That sharp cut still rang in my ears, like someone had slammed a door on her mid-sentence. I knew she’d been trying to protect something. And I knew Ramona Finch had been in that room when it happened.

I drove out to the Finch Apiary just after sunrise, the gravel road still damp from last night’s rain. The orchard was quiet, bees slow to stir, their hum barely audible beneath the rustle of leaves. Ramona’s house sat at the edge of the grove, a squat farmhouse with peeling paint and a porch that leaned slightly west, like it had grown tired of standing straight.

She answered the door in a flannel shirt and work boots, her hair pulled back in a loose braid. Her eyes were sharp, but her posture was cautious—like she’d been bracing for this visit. The bruising around her temple had faded, but the way she moved—slow, deliberate—told me she was still recovering.

“I figured you’d come,” she said, stepping aside. “You sound like Trudi when you walk.”

Ramona had been released from the hospital just three days earlier. The doctors said she was mostly recovered—no lasting damage, just a concussion and a few cracked ribs. But the attack had left its mark. Someone had torched part of the apiary, scattering hives and shattering glass. Ramona had been found unconscious near the shed, her body curled protectively around a tin of honey.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” I said, meaning it more than I expected.

She gave a tight nod and led me into the kitchen, where the scent of beeswax and coffee clung to the air. The table was cluttered with soil samples, old zoning maps, and a half-eaten slice of toast.

“I listened to the tape,” I said, sliding the recorder onto the table.

Ramona didn’t flinch. She just stared at it like it was a relic.

“I was there,” she said quietly. “Trudi was the only one who spoke up. The rest of them—Clay included—had already made up their minds.”

“What were they approving?” I asked. “Resolution 1143?”

She nodded. “A land use amendment. It gave Coldstream Development access to the filtration zone near Crane Creek. Technically, it was outside the protected boundary. But practically? It was the heart of the grove.”

I glanced at the maps. The lines were precise, but the implications were messy.

“They said the soil was commercially viable,” Ramona continued. “My father’s research confirmed it—trace minerals, microbial balance, something about the sediment that made our honey unique. Coldstream wanted it. And they didn’t want to wait.”

“Did Trudi know?” I asked.

“She knew enough to stall them,” Ramona said. “She kept requesting public review, kept flagging inconsistencies in the reports. That meeting was her last stand.”

I swallowed hard. “Two weeks later, she was gone.”

Ramona looked at me then, really looked. “You think they did something?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “But I think she was silenced. And I think you were, too.”

Ramona reached under the table and pulled out a tin—Finch & Gold Reserve, stamped 1923. The same kind Caleb had found in the cellar.

“This is the last batch we made before the zoning changed,” she said. “The bees haven’t behaved the same since.”

I held the tin in my hands, felt its weight. It wasn’t just honey. It was history. It was evidence.

Outside, the grove swayed in the morning breeze. The bees had begun to stir, their hum rising like a warning.

“I want to know what they buried,” I said. “And I think you do, too.”

Ramona nodded slowly. “Then we start with the soil.”

 

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COMING NEXT WEEK — The story continues with chapter 6: “The Ground Beneath Us”