Chapter 13 - The Vault in Newport
Z
The Ocean State Trust building in downtown Newport was an imposing Victorian granite structure overlooking the gray, churning waters of the Atlantic. Its high arched windows and marble pillars felt like a monument to an era built on hidden fortunes and unspoken bargains.
Detective Christopher Vance-Sterling was waiting for us inside the private security lobby. He was a broad-shouldered man in his late thirties with dark hair, sharp blue eyes, and an unmistakable family resemblance to my father around the brow.
"Rachel," Christopher said, offering a firm handshake. He looked at Patrick, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Patrick Logan. I remember seeing your name in the witness protection files."
"I kept Arthur safe while he was alive," Patrick replied stoically, crossing his arms. "I intend to keep his daughter safe now."
Christopher nodded once, turning toward an armed bank guard standing by a heavy steel door at the back of the lobby. "The bank manager, Mr. Thornton, is waiting for us in the lower vault."
We descended a narrow spiral staircase into the climate-controlled basement of the bank. The air was thick with the scent of aged paper, polished brass, and cold stone.
Mr. Thornton, a thin man in a pristine three-piece suit, met us outside a private viewing room lined with safety deposit boxes. "Mrs. Vance, thank you for coming on such short notice. Box 408 has remained untouched since November 14, 1986—until six weeks ago when an individual attempted access."
"Show me the security footage," I demanded, my hands clenched tightly inside my coat pockets.
Thornton pulled up a digital tablet, queueing up a grain video recording timestamped from six weeks earlier.
On the screen, a tall man in a long trench coat and a brimmed hat walked up to the counter. He held out an old, yellowed state ID card and typed a six-digit code into the counter terminal. The teller checked the system, shook her head, and made a phone call. Seeing the delay, the man turned smoothly and walked out of the camera's frame before security could intercept him.
I leaned closer to the screen. The man's face was partially shadowed by his hat, but as he turned toward the door, the light caught the side of his jaw.
There was a long, jagged scar running from his ear down to his collar.
"Do you recognize him?" Christopher asked, observing my reaction closely.
"No," I whispered. "I've never seen that man in my life."
"I have," Patrick spoke up, his voice cracking slightly.
We both turned to look at him. Patrick was staring at the screen, his face drained of all color.
"Who is he, Patrick?" I asked.
"That's Dominic Vance-Sterling," Patrick said softly. "Arthur's older brother. The man everyone believed died in a boating accident off the coast of Maine in 1984."
My head spun. "Dad had a brother? He never mentioned a brother!"
"Because Dominic was the one who brought Victor into the investment firm in the first place," Patrick explained, stepping up to the counter. "Dominic wasn't a victim of Victor's fraud, Rachel. He was the mastermind. When the federal investigation began in 1986, Dominic faked his own death and left Arthur to take the fall."
"So when Arthur went into witness protection..." I stammered, the terrible picture coming into focus, "...he wasn't just hiding from Victor. He was hiding from his own brother."
"And Dominic thought Arthur took the remaining offshore accounts with him into hiding," Christopher added, his jaw tight. "That’s why Dominic has resurfaced. With Julian in prison and the Vane & Sterling files exposed, Dominic knows his time is running out. He came to claim whatever Arthur left in Box 408."
Mr. Thornton used two separate brass keys to unlock the safety deposit drawer, sliding a long, heavy metal container onto the velvet-lined table in the center of the room.
"Mrs. Vance," Thornton said politely. "It's yours."
My fingers trembled as I lifted the lid of the box.
Inside lay no gold bars, no stacks of bearer bonds, and no legal ledgers.
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Instead, sitting in the center of the dark metal box was a silver pocket watch that had belonged to my grandfather, a stack of old letters tied with pink ribbon, and an audio cassette tape labeled with a single word in my father's handwriting:
DOMINIC.
