CHAPTER TWO: The Man Who Thought I Was Alone
By the time we arrived at Carter’s Table, two police cars were parked beneath the flickering neon sign.
Broken glass covered the sidewalk.
Red paint dripped across the brick wall.
71 HOURS.
My cook, Luis, stood in the doorway with a broom in one hand and a baseball bat in the other.
“Miss Evelyn, I swear, if they come back—”
“You call the police.”
“I already called them.”
“You call again.”
The officers took photographs and reviewed the camera above the entrance. The person who threw the brick had worn a hood and kept his face turned away.
But he had arrived in a dark SUV.
The license plate had been covered.
It was enough to frighten my employees.
It was not enough to identify anyone.
Hannah stood inside the diner, staring at the damage.
“This is my fault.”
“No,” I said. “It’s Grant’s choice.”
“He’s going to keep doing this.”
“Then he’ll keep leaving evidence.”
She looked at me as though she wanted to believe me but had forgotten how.
At eight that morning, I called Rebecca Sloan.
Rebecca had been eating breakfast at Carter’s Table every Thursday for seventeen years. She ordered black coffee, rye toast, and eggs cooked so lightly that Luis always complained they were barely introduced to the skillet.
She was also one of the most feared family-law attorneys in Chicago.
She arrived forty minutes later wearing a gray wool coat and an expression that made both police officers stand straighter.
Rebecca listened without interrupting.
She reviewed the hospital photographs.
She saved Grant’s voicemail.
Then she looked at Hannah.
“I need you to tell me everything he made you sign.”
Hannah rubbed her wrists.
“There was a prenuptial agreement.”
“Before the wedding?”
“Yes.”
“Anything after?”
“A property waiver. Some business forms. Loan papers.”
“What loans?”
“I don’t know.”
Rebecca’s expression changed.
“You signed loan documents without reading them?”
“Grant told me they were routine.”
“Were you given copies?”
“No.”
“Did you sign electronically?”
“Sometimes. Other times he put pages in front of me and pointed to the signature lines.”
Rebecca closed her notebook.
“We need a credit report, tax transcripts, bank statements, and every corporate filing connected to Hannah’s name.”
My phone began ringing.
It was our produce supplier.
Then our dairy supplier.
Then the company that delivered flour.
Each call sounded nearly identical.
They were sorry.
There had been a sudden change in company policy.
They could no longer service Carter’s Table.
Luis stared at me from behind the counter.
“All of them?”
“All of them.”
Rebecca’s jaw tightened.
“Holloway Select purchases from half the same distributors in the Midwest. Grant is applying pressure.”
The front door opened.
Two uniformed officers entered.
I assumed they had returned to ask more questions.
Instead, one of them approached me.
“Evelyn Carter?”
“Yes.”
“We need you to come with us.”
Rebecca stepped between us.
“For what reason?”
The officer held up a document.
“Grant Holloway and Margaret Holloway have filed assault complaints.”
Hannah stood so quickly that her chair overturned.
“My mother was protecting me.”
“That may be,” the officer said. “But we have a warrant.”
Rebecca turned toward me.
“Do not answer questions without me.”
I removed my apron.
Luis stared in disbelief as the officer placed handcuffs around my wrists.
Outside, a black Mercedes sat across the street.
Grant was behind the wheel.
Even through the tinted glass, I could see him smiling.
He lifted his phone and tapped the screen.
A new message appeared on mine.
May you like
70 HOURS.
Then the Mercedes pulled away.
