Chapter 8 - The Shadow of Holloway Hill
The ink on the finalized liquidation papers was barely dry when Marcus Vance placed a thick brown envelope across the oak table in Simone’s temporary office above the new Westport location. Outside, the midday traffic hummed along Post Road, a stark contrast to the sterile, echoing quiet of the federal courthouse where the final civil judgments had been handed down three weeks prior.
"The receivership sale of Holloway Hill concluded this morning," Marcus said, adjusting his glasses as he pushed the documents forward. "The estate fetched about forty percent below market value due to the emergency lien attachments and the ongoing federal cloud over the Reeves title. But it was enough to fully cover the restitution order for your business capital, plus legal fees."
Simone opened the folder, her eyes scanning the itemized ledger. The names of high-net-worth buyers and blind trust LLCs scrolled past until one particular corporate entity caught her attention—Fairfield Heritage Holdings.
"Who operates this trust?" Simone asked, her finger resting on the line.
"A shell corporation backed by an anonymous private equity firm out of Boston," Marcus replied, leaning back in his chair. "Word on the street is that a consortium of old-money investors swooped in to buy the estate before it hit public foreclosure. They plan to gut the interior, strip out the family heirlooms, and flip it as a luxury boutique wellness retreat. The iron gates are coming down next month."
Simone closed the folder. There was no theatrical wave of nostalgia, no sudden pang of regret for the grand stone house where she had spent three years playing the role of the quiet, obedient wife while Douglas built his house of cards. Holloway Hill had never been a home; it had been a stage set designed to make lesser mortals feel small. Now, the stage was being dismantled.
"And Douglas?" she asked quietly.
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"Sentenced to four years at a federal minimum-security facility in Otisville," Marcus said, his tone entirely clinical. "His plea deal went through yesterday. His mother is living in that Hartford condo on a meager monthly stipend managed by the court-appointed trustee. All her personal jewelry and art collections were seized to settle the bank's secondary loans. She's entirely isolated; none of the country club crowd or family members return her calls anymore."
Simone nodded once. She didn't feel triumph, nor did she feel pity. When you build your entire life on the premise that human beings can be divided into those who sit at the table and those who serve in the kitchen, you eventually run out of people willing to keep score.
