Chapter 4 - The Threat in the Yard
The fog had turned into a steady, freezing rain by Thursday evening. The streetlights along 79th Street flickered through the dark, casting long, distorted shadows across the empty pavement.
Inside the diner, the last of the dinner customers had gone, leaving only the scent of pine-sol and fried onions. Hannah was asleep in the back booth, her head resting on a folded apron, her face finally looking peaceful in the dim light of the pie case.
I was locking the cash register when the headlights of a large vehicle swept across the front window, bright and white enough to blind me for a second.
A black Mercedes SUV—the same one Grant had driven to our wedding—pulled up onto the sidewalk, its tires crushing the small wooden sign we had set out to advertise our daily specials.
Two men got out. One was Grant. He wore a long, charcoal-colored cashmere coat, his hair perfectly parted despite the wind, his leather shoes stepping directly into a puddle of dirty rain. The other man was larger, wearing a dark leather jacket with a security badge clipped to his belt. I recognized him from the Lake Forest estate—Victor Vance, the head of Holloway's private security team.
They didn't knock. Grant shoved the front door open, the little bell letting out a panicked, chaotic chime as he stepped inside, leaving wet, greasy tracks on my clean floor.
"Evelyn," Grant said, his voice flat and cold. He didn't look at the diner. He looked at me with the absolute, unearned confidence of a man who had never been told no in his entire life. "Where is she?"
"She’s where you can't reach her, Grant," I said, staying behind the counter, my hand slipping beneath the cash drawer where Richard’s old Smith & Wesson revolver was kept. I didn't want to use it, but I knew the look of a man who had run out of patience.
"You have twenty-four hours left on your little deadline, Evelyn," Grant said, stepping closer to the counter. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a thick, white envelope, tossing it onto the laminated wood. "This is a voluntary separation agreement. Hannah signs it, she waives all claims to the Holloway estate, she waives custody of any future children, and she signs a non-disclosure agreement regarding our... family matters."
"And if she doesn't?" I asked.
"If she doesn't, my mother's lawyers are going to file a petition with the county court tomorrow morning," Grant said, a cold, sharp smirk appearing on his face. "We’ve already compiled a medical report from her stay at the Lake Forest clinic last year. We have her signature on a consent form for treatment for 'mental instability and substance abuse.' In Illinois, a husband can initiate an involuntary commitment if he can prove his spouse is a danger to herself."
My blood went cold. "She was in that clinic because you pushed her down the stairs, Grant! She had a concussion and a broken collarbone!"
"The medical records say she fell because she was intoxicated, Evelyn," Grant whispered, leaning over the counter until I could smell the expensive cologne and the sour scent of gin on his breath. "And the doctor who signed those records is on our payroll. Who is a judge going to believe? A prominent philanthropist family, or a girl from the South Side who lives with her mother in a flat above a greasy spoon?"
From the dark corner of the diner, a heavy, metallic click sounded.
Victor Vance, the security guard, spun around, his hand flying to the holster beneath his leather jacket. But he stopped.
Frank had stepped out from the kitchen doorway. He wasn't holding a spatula. He was holding a sixty-pound iron meat slicer blade, his massive forearms tensed, his eyes locked on Victor’s face. Behind him, Artie Pendelton stood in the shadows of the back hallway, his heavy wooden cane held like a club.
"You've got three seconds to get out of my restaurant, Grant," I said, my voice dropping to a level, quiet whisper that made the young man’s smirk finally falter. "And you can take your little papers with you."
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"You're making a mistake, Evelyn," Grant said, backing toward the door, his eyes darting between Frank and Artie. "By Friday night, you won't even have a roof over your head."
"We’ll see who has a roof left tomorrow, Grant," I said.
