Chapter 4 - The Discovery in the Grand Library
Nathan turned off his flashlight for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the dim, gray twilight filtering through the rain-soaked windows. The scratching sound stopped.
Then it started again—louder this time, coming from the direction of the grand library at the end of the east wing.
He stepped out of the study, drawing a small, silenced 9mm pistol from his shoulder holster with practiced, fluid ease. He didn't expect police. The police had cleared this house six years ago and never looked back. But Newport was full of opportunists, scavengers, and men who believed an abandoned mafia-bought mansion made a convenient hiding spot.
He moved silently down the corridor, keeping his back to the wall, his boots making no sound on the heavy oriental runners.
The library doors stood wide open.
Inside, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined the walls, thousands of leather-bound volumes standing like silent sentinels in the gloom. In the center of the vast room, standing perfectly still beneath the towering stone fireplace, was a shape.
It wasn't a man.
It was a large, jet-black mastiff, its massive head lowered toward the base of the rear wall.
As Nathan stepped into the doorway, the dog did not growl. It did not bark. It turned its heavy head slowly, fixing two dark, intelligent eyes on Nathan. The animal was shockingly thin, its ribs visible beneath a coat that had somehow survived years in the sealed, lightless cavities of the house. Around its neck hung a worn, cracked leather collar with a tarnished brass tag.
Nathan lowered the pistol slightly.
“How are you alive in here?” he asked softly.
The dog let out a low, vibrating whine, turned back to the wall, and began to scratch frantically at the wainscoting with one massive paw. Scratch. Scratch. Thump.
Nathan walked across the Persian rug, his eyes fixed on the animal. The dog stepped aside, panting softly, its tail giving a single, tentative thump against the floorboards before returning its gaze to a specific mahogany panel near the floor.
Nathan knelt beside the mastiff. He reached out slowly, letting the animal sniff the back of his hand. The dog pressed its cold, wet nose against his skin, then nudged his wrist toward the wood.
Nathan ran his fingers along the seams of the mahogany paneling.
At first glance, it looked like part of the original Victorian library design—rich, dark wood carved with intricate floral motifs. But as his fingers traced the lower edge, he felt a subtle discrepancy.
The panel did not sit flush against the lath and plaster.
It rested against a sheet of thick, industrial steel.
“Six years too late,” Nathan whispered, remembering the date of the fire and the sudden, suspicious closure of the police investigation.
May you like
He stood up, gripped the edge of the carved wooden molding with both hands, and threw his weight backward.
With a loud, protesting crack of splintering wood and rusted iron nails, the entire wall section popped inward, revealing a dark, hidden alcove that the architects of the Gilded Age had never marked on any blueprint.
