Chapter 26 - The Suits on Elm Street
The morning rush at Carter’s Table was a beautiful, orchestrated chaos. By eight o'clock, every single booth in the newly expanded dining room was packed with locals. The scent of dark roast coffee, sizzling bacon, and Frank’s legendary cinnamon rolls hung thick in the air. Hannah moved through the tables with effortless grace, carrying three heavy ceramic plates balanced perfectly on her arms. She was smiling, genuinely and brightly, greeting the regulars by their first names and remembering exactly how they took their eggs.
I stood behind the counter, wiping down the laminate surface and ringing up a takeout order. Life had settled into a rhythm of profound, unshakable peace. The shadows of the Holloway estate were nothing more than dust in the rearview mirror of our lives.
But peace, I had learned, is something you always have to actively protect.
The bell above the glass door chimed, cutting through the low hum of conversation. Two men walked into the diner. They stood out instantly, starkly contrasting with the flannel shirts and work boots of our usual morning crowd. They wore immaculate, charcoal-gray tailored suits, crisp white shirts, and silk ties. They looked like they had just stepped out of a corporate boardroom in downtown Chicago, not a neighborhood diner on Elm Street.
The taller of the two men, who had slicked-back dark hair and a cold, calculating gaze, scanned the room. He didn't look at the handwritten menu specials on the chalkboard. He looked at the walls, the ceiling, the newly constructed patio, and the square footage of the floor space. He was appraising the building, not the food.
Hannah approached them, pulling a fresh order pad from her apron pocket. "Good morning, gentlemen. Just the two of you? I have a booth opening up in the back, or you can take a seat at the counter."
The tall man looked at Hannah, his eyes lingering for a fraction of a second too long, assessing her with a clinical detachment. "We don't need a table, sweetheart," he said, his voice smooth but entirely devoid of warmth. "We aren't here to eat. We are looking for the owner. Evelyn Carter."
I stopped wiping the counter. I threw the rag over my shoulder and walked down to the register, my protective instincts instantly flaring to life. I had dealt with arrogant men in expensive suits before, and I knew exactly how to handle them.
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"You found her," I said, my voice flat and authoritative. "What can I do for you?"
The man smiled, reaching into his tailored jacket to retrieve a thick, embossed business card. He slid it across the counter. "My name is Marcus Vance. I represent Vanguard Acquisitions. We need to have a very serious conversation about the future of this corner lot."
