Chapter 3 - The Ghost of the Harbor
The Newport harbor in late autumn possessed a moody, cinematic beauty. Gray mists rolled in off Block Island Sound by mid-afternoon, blurring the line between the slate-colored water and the weathered shingle roofs of the historic waterfront. For Corrie, the mist was no longer a threat; it was a curtain behind which she and Lily could finally live without looking over their shoulders.
Yet, freedom had its own rhythm of adjustment. For the first week, every time a luxury sedan idled too long by the curb or a heavy knock rattled the building’s main entrance, Corrie’s hand would instinctively drop to her pocket where she kept her keys like a talisman.
The apartment on Thames Street was modest—two bedrooms with drafty sash windows and floors that creaked with a welcoming, organic warmth. It was furnished with simple pine pieces and thick woolen rugs that muffled Lily’s endless, energetic running. Best of all, it was paid for. A full year’s lease had been settled via an anonymous cashier’s deposit into the landlord's account two hours after Corrie had walked out of Hallowmere Manor’s iron gates.
On a crisp Thursday morning, while Lily was engrossed in a box of watercolor paints at the low kitchen table, Corrie sat by the window with a cup of black coffee and the blue manila folder. She had looked at the documents a hundred times, half-expecting the state seals to dissolve or the signatures to turn out to be an elaborate illusion crafted by Whitlock’s cruel imagination. But they remained stubbornly, beautifully real.
Her phone, a cheap prepaid model she’d bought at a bodega down the block, buzzed against the wooden sill.
The screen displayed an unknown number.
Corrie hesitated, her thumb hovering over the green button. Since leaving the estate, she had received zero calls. No debt collectors, no social services inquiries, no threatening messages from Everett Whitlock’s ghost.
She swiped and pressed the phone to her ear. "Hello?"
"Miss Hayes."
The voice was unmistakable—low, gravel-toned, and carrying that heavy, unhurried cadence that belonged to Domenico Moretti. He didn't waste time with pleasantries.
"I trust the transition to Thames Street has been satisfactory," Domenico said. A background sound drifted through the receiver—the low rumble of an idling engine and the sharp clink of ceramic.
"It’s... more than satisfactory, Mr. Moretti," Corrie replied, standing up and walking slightly away from the table so Lily wouldn't notice her tension. "We have everything we need. The apartment is warm, and Lily starts her outpatient physical therapy next Tuesday."
"Good," Domenico said. A brief pause stretched across the line, heavy with unspoken thoughts. "There is a matter of administrative cleanup concerning your departure from Hallowmere. Whitlock left behind a series of encrypted client logs on the private terminal in the north study. Among them are records that involve your late husband's shipping contracts from five years ago."
Corrie’s breath caught in her throat. Her husband, David, had died in what the insurance companies conveniently called a "workplace accident" at the Providence docks—an accident that had left her financially destitute and forced her into the desperate position of taking a maid's job at Hallowmere in the first place.
"What kind of records?" Corrie asked, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper.
"The kind that suggest David’s death was no accident, and that Whitlock was acting as an intermediary for people who found your husband's refusal to look the other way inconvenient," Domenico stated flatly. "I am currently in Europe attending to... portfolio expansion. But my associate, Marcus, will be dropping an envelope into your mailbox this afternoon. Do not open it outside. Read it when you are alone."
"Mr. Moretti—wait," Corrie said, panic flaring in her chest. "Why are you doing this? You’ve already given me Lily back. You cleared my debts. Why dig into David? That’s dangerous."
"In my world, Miss Hayes, loose ends have a habit of bleeding through clean carpets," Domenico replied quietly. "And I despise untidy work. Stay inside this evening."
The line clicked dead.
True to his word, at precisely 3:15 PM, a sharp double-knock sounded at the apartment door.
Corrie, who had been sitting on the floor helping Lily mix blue and yellow paint to make a passable ocean, froze. She told Lily to keep coloring, walked swiftly to the heavy wooden door, and pulled it open.
The hallway was empty save for a tall, broad-shouldered man in a dark trench coat who was already walking toward the building's exterior stairwell. Tucked securely into the brass mail slot was a thick, unaddressed manila envelope sealed with red wax bearing an embossed 'M'.
Corrie pulled the envelope free, locked the door twice, and carried it to the kitchen table.
"Mommy, look! Whale water!" Lily held up a blue-smeared paper with unbridled pride.
"That's a magnificent whale, sweetheart," Corrie said, forcing a calm smile. She gently pushed the paints toward the sink. "Why don't you take your crayons into your room and play with your puzzle for twenty minutes? Mommy has to read some boring grown-up papers."
Once Lily was safely occupied down the hall, Corrie cracked the red wax seal.
Inside wasn't a collection of legal briefs. It was a single micro-SD card and a handwritten ledger page torn directly from Whitlock’s private journal. The handwriting, neat and clinical, detailed a series of payoffs made to a corrupt municipal inspector in Providence—and right beside the date of David’s death was a signature: E.W., paired with a sub-contractor code that belonged to a front company tied directly to a rival syndicate operating out of Boston.
More terrifying than the papers, however, was a small black-and-white photograph slipped into the back of the folder.
May you like
It was a picture taken from across a street, dated just two days ago. It showed Corrie walking out of the local grocery store with Lily holding her hand. And standing fifty feet behind them, half-concealed by a brick pillar, was a man with a distinct jagged scar across his right cheek—a man who was not one of Domenico’s guards.
Someone was watching them in Newport. The sanctuary of Hallowmere Manor was gone, and the war for the docks had followed her home.
