Please no throw-away chatting online.

Monique was trying to process what had just happened.

She was also collecting her thoughts for the one permitted phone call to the lawyer.

Early this afternoon. Finished a bunch of baking. Doorbell rang. Men in black flashing badges. Handcuffs applied. The hasty warning of rights recited. Little small talk. All strictly business.

A cursory search of the ground floor of the house. Confiscation of her computer from the den.

Ride in the back seat of the cruiser to some obscure building downtown that she had never noticed before.
Try as she might, she could not guess the cause of this fiasco.

How long would it take before those long faces discovered the email to her best friend Daphne:

I just hate that recipe of my Aunt’s for Dutch apple pie. Baked one again this morning. It was a bomb. I had intended to deliver it tomorrow to my neighbour Helen Harper. She is sick with the flu and all alone with her husband away on business. Oh well, perhaps someday my Aunt will explain the cause of my problem.”
Ah, the comfort and assurance that comes from National Security.
 
(Key words noticed by federal protectors, ringing bells somewhere sequestered big time: hate…recipe…baked one…bomb…deliver it tomorrow…Harper…all alone…the cause.)