*SNAP.*
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 13: EPILOGUE: THE TERRACE OVER THE SOUND
Fourteen months later.
The early autumn sun broke over the high, landscaped granite ramparts and the wide, sparkling blue expanse of Long Island Sound outside our restored family homestead on Parcel Nine in Oyster Bay, New York, burning off the sweet morning mist that clung to the sweeping clover lawns and the blooming native hydrangeas along our front terrace.
The air was sixty-four degrees, smelling of sun-cured cedar shingles, salt spray from the sound, fresh-baked blueberry scones, and the clean, honest ozone of an un-broken American sky.
The historic forty-acre Mercer estate—and the kitchen where Mrs.
