Chapter 7 - The Front Page
By Saturday morning, the Holloways’ carefully curated world was completely dismantled.
I was pouring a cup of black coffee for Old Man Henderson at booth three when Frank slapped the morning edition of the Chicago Tribune onto the counter.
"ORGANIC EMPIRE BUILT ON ROTTEN EGGS" the headline blared. Below it was a massive photograph of the Holloway Cicero distribution center, surrounded by police tape and State Agriculture vans.
"Looks like the golden boy isn't so golden anymore," Frank chuckled, wiping his hands on his apron.
Hannah walked out of the kitchen carrying a tray of scrambled eggs and hash browns. She stopped, looking at the newspaper on the counter. I watched her carefully, looking for a flinch or a tear.
Instead, a quiet, genuine smile touched the corners of her mouth.
May you like
"They’re liquidating his assets to pay the federal fines," Hannah noted, reading the sub-header. She picked up her tray and looked at me. "Table four needs hot sauce, Mom."
She walked away, head held high. The ghost of Grant Holloway was finally exorcised from her posture.
