Chapter 3 - THE SEAM IN THE WALNUT
The flashlight beam cut a sharp white wedge through the floating dust of the foyer.
Nathan ran his fingers along the vertical seam where two panels of black walnut met beneath the stairs. The gap was too narrow for a knife blade, yet a thin line of fresh white powder sat on the molding below it—drywall dust that had drifted down within the last forty-eight hours.
“Someone has been here,” Warrick said, stepping up beside him. His heavy coat brushed against Nathan’s shoulder. “And recently.”
“The estate was sealed by court order,” Nathan said. “No one was supposed to have keys except the Newport municipal inspector, and he signed off two years ago.”
“Inspectors don’t carry crowbars.”
Nathan didn’t reply. He placed both hands against the center panel and shoved.
The wood did not budge.
He pressed his shoulder against the carving, throwing his weight forward. With a dry, protesting shriek of rusted iron hinges, the entire section of walnut paneling swung inward like a heavy cabinet door.
A rush of air spilled out into the hallway.
It didn't smell like six years of dust.
It smelled like damp earth, vinegar, and old paper.
Warrick raised his lantern, pushing his silver-rimmed glasses up his nose. He peered into the black rectangular opening.
“It’s not a closet,” Warrick whispered.
Nathan reached into his coat, drew out a heavy Sig Sauer pistol, and clicked off the safety. He stepped through the opening first, his flashlight slicing through the dark.
The hidden room was no wider than a hallway closet, extending back beneath the stone staircase. But it had not been built with the house.
The side walls were constructed of modern gray cinder blocks, mismatched with the historic masonry of the foundation. A single metal folding table sat in the center of the concrete floor.
On top of the table rested three items:
A digital audio recorder with a dead battery.
A leather-bound ledger with water-damaged edges.
And a heavy glass jar containing a woman’s silver wedding band and a small, tarnished silver locket.
Nero did not enter the room. He sat outside the threshold, his tail flat against the floor, his eyes fixed on the back wall of the cinder-block enclosure where the mortar was still wet around the topmost blocks.
Nathan walked past the table and shined his light directly against that back wall.
Scrawled into the gray cement with a metal trowel, before the mortar had set, were six words:
THEY ARE STILL IN THE WELL.
Warrick read over his shoulder. The old man’s breath caught in his throat, a sharp, ragged sound in the confined space.
“That wasn't written in 2019,” Warrick said, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “Look at the texture of the lime. It hasn't fully cured on the edges. Someone built this wall a week ago, Nathan. While the auction was being advertised in the Providence Journal.”
Nathan picked up the leather ledger. He didn't open it immediately. He checked the cover.
Embossed in gold leaf that had begun to flake off: OSTRANDER SHIPPING & EXPORT.
“My father knew Arthur Ostrander,” Nathan said, his voice cold as the stone beneath his boots. “They sat on the port authority board together in the nineties.”
“Arthur Ostrander died of a heart stroke in his study twelve years ago,” Warrick reminded him.
“Yes,” Nathan said. “And his son, Julian Ostrander, inherited the shipping lanes—and the debts that came with them.”
He flipped the cover of the ledger open.
The first page wasn't financial data. It was a list of names, dates, and account numbers associated with Vance Harbor Logistics—his own company’s precursor, dating back to the years when his father controlled the waterfront through fear and ledgers that never saw a tax office.
And beside those names was a secondary column, marked in red ink:
PAID TO THE D.A.’S OFFICE — UNIT 4.
Nathan stared at the page.
His father had not just run a shipping syndicate. He had bought protection from the highest levels of the state judiciary—and the man who had brokered those payments was none other than the current Newport Chief of Police, who had started his career as a junior prosecutor in 2018.
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“It wasn't a curse that kept buyers away from this house,” Nathan said quietly, closing the ledger with a dull thud that echoed in the tiny room.
“No,” Warrick said, his hand tightening on the wooden handle of his lantern. “It was an insurance policy.”
