Chapter 4: Storage Unit B17
The storage facility sat on the industrial edge of town, a long stretch of metal doors under a sky the color of wet concrete. I drove there the next morning while the air was still sharp with cold. The heater in my car worked unevenly, blowing warm air in short bursts that never quite reached my hands.
Unit B17 was near the back, in a row that faced a chain-link fence and a vacant lot beyond. The padlock was old but well-oiled; it opened without resistance. Behind the door sat the blue Ford, covered by a heavy tarp that had grown stiff with dust and time. I pulled the tarp back slowly. Dust rose in a soft cloud and hung in the slanted light from the open door.
The 1998 sedan looked worse than I remembered. The paint had faded to a dull, chalky blue. The tires were soft. The chrome around the windows was pitted with rust. Robert had refused every offer to sell it over the years. Friends had joked about it. Mark had once called it an eyesore. Lucas had offered to take it to the scrap yard himself. Each time Robert had only smiled that small, private smile and said the same thing.
“Sentimental junk.”
I walked around to the rear of the car. The key was taped under the bumper exactly where he always hid spare keys—wrapped in a small piece of plastic and secured with black electrical tape. My fingers found it easily, as if they had always known where to look. The trunk lock turned with a reluctant metallic click.
May you like
I stood there for a moment with my hand on the cold metal, heart beating too hard in my chest. The letter’s words repeated themselves in my mind. Everything you need to know is there.
I opened the trunk.
