Chapter 2 - STORAGE UNIT 108
I read my father’s first sentence three times.
Son, if you're reading this, Reagan has already started lying to you.
The cemetery suddenly felt colder.
The old groundskeeper stood a few feet away, watching me without speaking. His gray work jacket was faded at the elbows, and dirt covered the knees of his trousers. Behind him, late-afternoon sunlight stretched long shadows between the headstones.
“What does this mean?” I asked.
The old man glanced toward the cemetery gates again.
“My name is Walter Briggs,” he said quietly. “I knew your father for almost thirty years.”
“Where is he?”
Walter’s face tightened.
“I promised Camden I wouldn’t answer that question until you opened storage unit 108.”
My frustration exploded.
“I've spent three years behind bars. I came home today and found out my father supposedly died without anyone telling me. My stepmother threatened to call the police. Now you're telling me he's not even buried here.”
Walter didn't flinch.
“I know.”
“No, you don't.”
“I know more than you think.”
I stepped closer.
“Then tell me.”
Walter stared at me for several seconds.
“Your father believed someone was watching him.”
That stopped me.
“Who?”
“He never gave me a name. But about eighteen months ago, he started coming here every Thursday morning. Always alone. Always checking behind him before he entered.”
“My father came to a cemetery every week?”
Walter nodded.
“He would sit beside your mother's grave.”
That sounded like him.
After my mother, Evelyn, died when I was sixteen, Dad visited her grave every Sunday for nearly ten years. Even after marrying Reagan, he kept bringing white lilies because they had been Mom's favorite.
Walter continued.
“One morning, he gave me the envelope you're holding. He said, ‘If Finnley ever comes here asking about me, give him this. Nobody else.’”
“Did Reagan ever come?”
“Three times.”
My blood chilled.
“What did she want?”
“She wanted to know whether Camden had left anything here.”
“And?”
“I told her no.”
Walter gave me a tired smile.
“She didn't believe me.”
I looked down at the old brass key resting in my palm.
STORAGE UNIT 108.
“Where?”
“Eastside Secure Storage. About six miles from here.”
I folded the letter carefully.
There was more writing underneath the first sentence, but I suddenly didn't want to read it in the open.
Walter seemed to understand.
“Don't open the rest until you're somewhere safe.”
“Safe from Reagan?”
Walter hesitated.
“Safe from whoever sent you to prison.”
The words hit harder than I expected.
For three years, everyone had treated my conviction like an undeniable fact.
A transfer of $487,000 from Dennis Manufacturing had been traced to an offshore account supposedly controlled by me.
Company passwords had been used.
Documents contained my electronic signature.
Security footage showed someone entering the accounting office using my access card.
The prosecution described it as an open-and-shut case.
Even people who had known me since childhood believed it.
Dad had attended every day of the trial.
But he never testified.
That had hurt more than the sentence.
I had spent three years wondering why.
Now Walter was telling me Dad might have believed the case was manufactured.
I thanked him and started walking toward the cemetery exit.
“Finnley.”
I turned.
Walter pointed toward my backpack.
“Whatever you find in that storage unit, don't take it straight to the police.”
“Why not?”
“Because your father didn't trust them either.”
Eastside Secure Storage sat behind a row of auto-repair garages beside the freeway.
The place looked almost abandoned.
A flickering sign buzzed above the office.
The woman behind the desk barely glanced up when I entered.
“I need access to unit 108.”
“ID.”
My stomach tightened.
I handed her my prison-issued identification and driver's license, which had expired while I was incarcerated.
She typed my name.
Then she stopped.
Her expression changed.
“What?”
She looked at me carefully.
“Someone has been paying this unit in cash for two years.”
“Who?”
“No name attached.”
“Can you tell me when the last payment was made?”
She checked.
“Three days ago.”
My skin prickled.
Three days ago.
If my father had been dead for a year, he couldn't have paid it.
“Can I open it?”
She glanced at the key.
“If the key works.”
The storage building smelled like concrete and dust.
Unit 108 was near the back.
I inserted the brass key.
It turned.
The metal door rolled upward with a loud rattle.
At first, I saw almost nothing.
One desk.
Four cardboard boxes.
A metal filing cabinet.
My father's old leather briefcase.
And his brown coat.
I froze.
I knew that coat.
Dad wore it every winter for almost twenty years.
He refused to replace it even after Reagan bought him a designer jacket.
I walked toward it.
My fingers touched the worn sleeve.
For one irrational second, I expected Dad to step from behind the boxes laughing.
Instead, something fell from the coat pocket.
A photograph.
I picked it up.
My father stood outside a small motel.
The date printed in the corner was eleven months ago.
One month after Reagan claimed he had died.
My breathing stopped.
Dad was alive after his supposed funeral.
There was somebody standing beside him.
A woman.
I recognized her.
Detective Hannah Cole.
The lead investigator in my theft case.
I flipped the photograph over.
Dad had written:
She finally believes me.
My knees nearly gave out.
I opened the leather briefcase.
Inside were bank statements, handwritten notes, and copies of company records.
On top sat a digital voice recorder.
A piece of masking tape was attached to it.
PLAY FIRST.
I pressed the button.
Static filled the unit.
Then my father's voice.
“Finnley.”
I hadn't heard him speak in three years.
My throat closed instantly.
“If you're listening to this, then things went worse than I hoped.”
I sat down on one of the boxes.
Dad continued.
“I need you to know something before anything else.”
His voice cracked.
“I never believed you stole that money.”
I covered my mouth.
For three years, I had wondered whether my own father thought I was guilty.
Three years.
“I should have said that publicly,” he continued. “I should have testified. But two days before I was scheduled to take the stand, somebody showed me photographs of you inside Oakwood Prison before you'd even been convicted.”
I frowned.
“That shouldn't have been possible.”
Dad's recording continued.
“They told me they had people inside. They said if I contradicted the evidence, you wouldn't survive your first month.”
My hands began shaking.
“So I stayed silent. And I have hated myself every day since.”
I lowered my head.
Anger and relief collided inside me.
“I started investigating quietly,” Dad said. “The transfers were real, but the account wasn't yours. Someone built an identity around you. Someone had access to internal security systems.”
I already knew who I suspected.
Carter.
My stepbrother had worked in Dennis Manufacturing's IT department for six months before I was arrested.
Then Dad said something I wasn't expecting.
“Carter helped them. But he didn't plan it.”
My head snapped up.
“There is someone above him.”
Static crackled.
“I don't know how deep this goes yet.”
A sound interrupted the recording.
Dad seemed to turn away from the microphone.
Then he whispered.
“If Reagan ever tells you I'm dead, do not believe her until you see my body.”
The recording stopped.
I stared at the machine.
My father had anticipated the lie.
Why?
I searched the other boxes.
One contained copies of my original trial evidence.
Another contained financial records.
The third was locked.
The fourth held newspaper clippings about Dennis Manufacturing.
I opened the filing cabinet.
Empty.
Then I noticed something taped beneath the desk.
A white envelope.
My name was written across it.
Inside was a bank safe-deposit-box card and a handwritten message.
Union Pacific Trust — Box 419.
Underneath:
Ask for Margaret Lane. Tell her Evelyn's birthday.
My mother's birthday.
September 14.
I slipped everything into my backpack.
Then I heard footsteps.
Someone was coming down the corridor.
I turned off the unit light.
The footsteps slowed outside 108.
A shadow appeared beneath the partially raised metal door.
I grabbed the nearest thing I could find—a heavy flashlight.
The door suddenly lifted.
A man stood there wearing a dark hoodie.
We stared at each other.
He looked surprised to see me.
Then his hand moved toward his waistband.
I swung the flashlight.
It struck his wrist.
A pistol dropped onto the concrete.
He lunged.
Three years in Oakwood had taught me one thing very quickly: when somebody attacked you, hesitation was expensive.
I drove my shoulder into his chest.
We slammed against the wall.
He punched my ribs.
I caught his jacket and shoved him backward.
His hood fell.
I recognized him.
Derek Shaw.
Former security supervisor at Dennis Manufacturing.
One of the prosecution's key witnesses.
“You,” I whispered.
Derek froze.
Then he ran.
I chased him into the parking lot, but he jumped into a black pickup and sped away.
I managed to see the license plate.
Then my phone rang.
Unknown number.
I answered cautiously.
No one spoke.
Then a woman's voice whispered:
“You should have stayed in prison.”
Click.
I stared at the phone.
A second later, a text message appeared.
It contained a photograph.
Taken less than a minute earlier.
It showed me standing outside storage unit 108.
Someone else had been watching.
May you like
And beneath the photograph were six words.
Your father made the same mistake.
