Chapter 24 · The Salt Vault

Owen didn't explain where he was dragging me.

He took the cellar stairs two at a time, flashlight gripped in one fist, his other hand sliding along the cold damp brick. I stayed right on his heels. Staying upstairs alone meant Helen Crowe found me first.

Halfway down, he spun. The beam hit me square in the eyes.

"Tell me what you smell."

Salt. Damp limestone. Iron.

And under that, diesel. The sharp, greasy rot of marine fuel that seeps into boat timber and never leaves.

"Fuel," I said, blinking against the glare. "In a house that runs strictly on heating oil."

"Nobody's touched that tank since my father died." He dragged the beam across the low brick ceiling. "Say it plainer."

"Somebody's running heavy engines down here. On a schedule. Big enough to burn real volume."

He let out a rough grunt in his throat. Not a yes. Not a no. Just filing it away behind that closed-off face of his.

We hit the bottom. Stone floor. The kind of wet chill that cuts straight through rubber soles. My right flank gave a hard, warning tug.