Chapter 6
County self-storage sat off Highway 31 behind gas station. Chain-link fence, blue metal doors, gravel lot white dust. Noon heat made air shimmer over asphalt. I parked under dead camera mount. Camera lens empty. Wire cut.
Office was cinderblock box with window AC rattling. Bell dinged when I pushed door. Man behind counter mid-sixties, county cap, reading paper. He didn't look up at first.
I set key on counter. Silver key, blue tape stamped 214. Tape old, edges curled.
He glanced, then stared. Expression shifted.
"Need to see unit 214," I said.
He picked key, turned it over. "That tape. She did that herself."
"She?"
"Your girl. Came in with woman earlier this year. Mother, I guess. Paid cash. Said daughter needed place for school stuff." He slid ledger toward me. Handwritten entries. "Name on file Michelle R. Cash six months. Paid through October."
Michelle. My wife. Dead three years. My throat went dry.
"ID?" he asked. Habit, not conviction.
I showed license. He checked name, nodded. "You family. Okay. 214 back row, near drainage ditch. Roll door sticks."
He handed me key back. Fingers left sweat on tape.
"You seen anyone at 214 lately?" I asked.
He hesitated. "Truck yesterday evening. White pickup. Guy tried office after hours. Said he lost key. I told him need ID, need name. He left."
My hand closed around key. "What guy look like?"
"Ball cap, dark jacket. Didn't get plate. Thought nothing of it till now." He pushed buzzer. Gate clacked. "You want me walk back with you?"
"No," I said. "Stay near phone."
Gravel crunched under boots. Units passed — 201, 203, 206. Paint numbers faded. Heat trapped between rows. My wedding band caught sun. Olive jacket heavy on shoulders. I carried backpack. Notebook inside pressed against spine.
214 was last row, shadow from pine trees cut across door. Blue door, number white stencil. Padlock through latch but key was for cylinder inside. Dust lay thick on door lip, on concrete threshold. Footprints disturbed dust. Fresh scrape near cylinder. Someone forced tool, left bright scratch.
I knelt. Breathed shallow. Put key in cylinder. Cylinder resisted, then turned with click. Dust fell. Lock had been picked before, pins loose.
I lifted roll door. Metal screamed. Light cut inside.
Unit small, maybe ten by ten. Concrete floor, bare bulb dead. One plastic bin with lid, color gray. One cardboard box taped, labeled in Michelle's handwriting: "TAX 2019". Photo frame face-down. And hard drive, black, USB wrapped rubber band.
Smell of old paper, damp. No climate control. But bin dry, taped edges fresh.
I pulled bin out into light. Popped lid. Inside: manila envelopes, bound with rubber bands. Photos on top — Michelle at foundation gala, arm around man in suit, both smiling. County foundation board photo. Next photo same man, closer, foundation tower background. Next — document, photocopy, county seal, memo about "drainage remediation - north parcel", handwritten margin notes in Michelle's script: "numbers don't add — asked twice — told drop it".
Notebook warnings flashed in head. Mom's Accident Wasn't An Accident.
Under photos: stack of printed emails. Foundation letterhead. Michelle flagged liability estimate. One line highlighted yellow: "If this leaks, we carry exposure."
Hard drive underneath, dust-free circle around it where hand lifted recently. Someone had been here, moved hard drive, put back wrong. Rubber band snapped.
I checked floor again. Second set footprints near back wall, half overlapping mine. Fresh.
Gravel popped behind me. I turned fast. No one between rows. Just heat, fence, distant highway hiss.
Then white pickup visible through fence, parked on shoulder beyond gas station. Engine running. Man in ball cap watched storage gate. Couldn't see face. Sun glare on windshield.
My pulse hammered against neck. I closed bin lid.
I shoved hard drive into backpack beside notebook. Took photo envelope, memo. Left tax box — decoy. Pulled door down halfway, relocked cylinder. Key stuck, then pulled free. Scratches on lock now mine too.
Walked back toward office fast, not running. Boots loud on gravel. Pickup didn't move. Manager stared through window, saw my face, opened door.
"You okay?" he asked.
"Someone still watches unit," I said. Low voice. "Don't log my visit. Don't mention name if pickup guy returns."
He nodded, eyes wide. "You want I call sheriff?"
May you like
"Not yet," I said. "Sheriff knows foundation."
I pushed past office, to car. Backed out slow. Pickup pulled from shoulder as I hit highway. Stayed two cars behind. Followed.
