They led to a storage facility twenty-three minutes from our home.
Sleep wasn’t possible that night. Instead, I began searching through the house.
I checked drawers, closets, coat pockets, the attic, and even his car.
Around two in the morning, I walked into the garage — the space he had always referred to as “his.”
One of the drawers in his desk was locked, something I had never noticed before.
Inside the bottom drawer, tucked behind an old envelope, I found a small compartment I had somehow never discovered all those years.
Inside it was a single metal key.
Thin. Numbered. Industrial.
The kind used for storage units.
The next morning, I drove there by myself.
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