Chapter 3 - Hour 59: The Black Notebook
Arthur let out a low whistle that crackled through the speaker. "Grant Holloway is an arrogant lightweight, Martha. But Margaret is a copperhead. She’s got half the zoning board in her pocket and enough capital to tie any civil suit in appeals until Hannah is fifty."
"I don't want a civil suit, Arthur," I said, leaning back against the cool concrete wall of the cellar. "Civil suits are for people who want apologies and settlement checks. I want complete, unconditional ruin. I want Margaret Holloway watching the auctioneer sell the rugs out from under her feet."
"Now you sound like the woman who brought down the Morrison hedge fund in 2012," Arthur murmured. "What do you need?"
"A complete forensic subpoena on Holloway Holdings' third-quarter filings from 2021 to the present. Specifically, look into the shell entities registered under 'Crestview Capital LLC' in Delaware. Grant mentioned something about our diner not being able to buy an egg. That tells me he's been playing with local supply chain logistics."
"I'll have my junior associates pull the state registry within the hour," Arthur replied. "But Martha? Watch your back. If Margaret smells an audit coming, she won't fight fair. She never does."
"Neither do I, Arthur. She just hasn't figured that out yet."
I hung up, climbed the stairs, and stepped out the back door of my house into the early morning chill. The diner was supposed to open at 6:00 AM. It was 5:15 AM now.
As I walked across the gravel lot toward the diner's rear entrance, I noticed something wrong. The outdoor motion sensor lights were dark. The heavy metal padlocks on the industrial walk-in freezer at the loading dock were missing.
I stepped inside the kitchen. The smell hit me immediately: sour, warm milk and the unmistakable stench of spoiled raw meat.
Every circuit breaker had been flipped. The master electrical box had been smashed open with a crowbar, the internal copper wiring clipped clean. Over five thousand dollars' worth of prime beef, dairy, and produce—prepped for the weekend rush—was sitting at room temperature, completely ruined.
Scribbled in black spray paint across the stainless steel prep table were three words:
*TIC TOC, BITCH.*
I didn't scream. I didn't cry. I pulled my phone from my pocket, snapped eight clean photos of the vandalism, and walked over to the office phone.
Before I could pick it up, the front door chimes jangled violently.
I stepped out into the dining room. Standing by the cash register was a man in an expensive navy wool overcoat, his slicked-back gray hair gleaming under the morning light. Behind him stood two burly men in matching dark jackets, their arms crossed over their chests.
It was Victor Cole, Margaret Holloway’s personal attorney and the family's long-time fixer.
"Martha," Victor said smoothly, smiling as if he were greeting an old acquaintance at a charity gala. "Terrible thing about your refrigeration. Equipment failure can be catastrophic for a small business like this. Especially when insurance policies have... exclusions for electrical negligence."
I walked toward him, stopping behind the laminate counter. "You have sixty-four hours left on your boy's deadline, Victor. You're getting sloppy if you're sending vandals in the dark."
Victor’s smile faded into a thin, condescending smirk. He pulled a thick document from his inner coat pocket and set it down on the counter between us.
"Grant is a generous young man, Martha. Despite your inexcusable physical assault on him last night, he’s willing to let bygones be bygones. This is a post-nuptial agreement and a deed of transfer."
"Explain," I said quietly.
"Hannah signs over her joint ownership of the Lake Forest mansion, waives all rights to alimony, and signs a non-disclosure agreement regarding family matters. In exchange, Grant won't press felony assault charges against you. Furthermore, Holloway Commercial won't foreclose on the land beneath this charming little diner."
I looked down at the paper, then back up at Victor. "The land?"
Victor tapped the paper with a manicured finger. "Your late husband took out a balloon mortgage on this commercial parcel twenty years ago with Midwest Heritage Bank. Midwest Heritage was acquired last month by a subsidiary of Holloway Holdings. You have a four-hundred-thousand-dollar balloon payment due this Monday morning at 9:00 AM, Martha. If it isn't paid in full, we initiate eviction procedures immediately."
He leaned in, his cologne smelling of expensive sandalwood and decay. "Grant gives you until Sunday evening to have Hannah on his porch, begging for forgiveness. If she's there, we refinance the note for twenty years at two percent. If she isn't... you're both homeless, broke, and you’ll be spending your golden years in a state penitentiary for battery."
I picked up the document. I held it between my thumb and forefinger, looked Victor Cole straight in his dead eyes, and tore the papers in half.
Then I tore them into fourths.
I tossed the confetti into the air; it fluttered down over his polished leather shoes.
"Tell Margaret that when I pay off that note on Monday morning," I said, "I'll do it with the money her son stole from his own company's payroll tax reserves."
May you like
Victor's eyes narrowed. A flicker of genuine uncertainty passed across his face before he masked it with cold contempt. "You're bluffing, old woman."
"Go check your phone, Victor," I whispered. "Arthur Sterling just filed an ex-parte injunction against Holloway Holdings in the Cook County Chancery Division. You have fifty-eight hours to figure out why your escrow accounts are sixty million dollars short."
