On the second reading, I noticed the pressure marks where his pen had dug into the paper on the words They have her.
On the third, I noticed that he had written Dad instead of Father.
He always signed notes to me that way.
I leaned back in the driver’s seat and closed my eyes.
It made no sense.
None of it.
And yet every instinct in my body, every buried animal part of my brain that recognized danger before logic could name it, told me the letter was real.
My father had known about the text.
He had predicted it.
He had known I would receive it at the cemetery.
Which meant someone had been watching.
I looked up sharply and checked the rearview mirror.
Nothing but rows of graves, polished stone, damp ground.
Still, my skin crawled.
I started the car.
Route 9 Storage sat on the outskirts of town, past the strip malls and chain restaurants, beyond the hardware store where my father used to take me on Saturday mornings when I was a kid. The farther I drove, the more the town thinned out into warehouses, fenced lots, and stretches of empty road lined with scrub grass and utility poles.
Clouds hung low and gray above the highway. The kind of afternoon that made every color seem washed out.
I kept checking my mirrors.
Every black SUV made my pulse jump. Every car that stayed behind me more than a few miles felt suspicious. Twice I took unnecessary turns just to see if anyone followed.
No one did.
Or if they did, they were good enough that I never caught them.
The storage facility was bigger than I expected—rows upon rows of corrugated metal units behind chain-link fencing topped with coiled barbed wire. Security cameras turned in slow, deliberate arcs overhead. A faded sign by the gate advertised climate-controlled units and 24-hour access.
I parked near the office.
Before I could get out, the office door opened.
Leave a Comment