I turned the key one-quarter turn to the right, locking the master conduit from the inside forever:
The hydraulic scuttle valves locked from the inside.
The four-inch titanium deadbolts shot home into the bedrock.
The line was plumb.
The foundation stood upon solid stone.
The ledger was closed forever.
CHAPTER 8: EPILOGUE: THE TERRACE OVER THE CAPE FEAR
Fourteen months later.
The early autumn sun broke over the quiet cul-de-sac and the wide, cobalt-blue expanse of the Cape Fear basin at our restored family estate in North Carolina, burning off the sweet morning mist that clung to the sweeping clover lawns and the newly planted beds of red and yellow marigolds along my front walkway.
The air was sixty-eight degrees, smelling of sun-cured cedar shingles, moist loam, fresh-baked blueberry scones, and the clean, honest ozone of an un-broken American sky.
The Vance property next door—the massive, vulgar six-thousand-square-foot mansion that Harold had built over the easement—had been completely dismantled.
