At my father’s funeral, the gravedigger pulled me aside: “Sir, your dad paid me to bury an empty coffin.” I said, “Stop joking.” He slipped me a key and hissed, “Don’t go home. Go to unit 17—NOW.” My phone buzzed. Mom texted, “Come home alone.”…

A woman stood there waiting.

She was in her late forties, maybe early fifties, dressed in dark slacks and a navy coat. She had the posture of someone who had spent years in institutions that demanded straight backs and fast decisions. Her eyes were sharp and measured, taking me in the moment I stepped from the car.

“Julian Mercer?” she asked.

I nodded.

“Patricia?”

Her expression didn’t change, but something in it hardened with recognition. “Come with me.”

“Who are you?”

She reached into her coat, flipped open a badge, and closed it again before I fully processed the lettering.

“Special Agent Patricia Holloway. FBI.”

I stopped walking.

“The FBI?”

She looked past me toward the road. “Everything will be explained, but not out here.”

“What does the FBI have to do with my father?”

Her mouth tightened. “More than you’re going to like.”

I followed her through a side gate and into the maze of storage units.

Unit numbers passed in sequence: 3, 5, 9, 11.

My heart beat harder with every step.

I wanted this to be a mistake.

I wanted to round the corner and find a harmless explanation—my father wrapped up in some absurd estate-planning game, some dramatic prank gone too far, a weird attempt at teaching me some final life lesson from beyond the grave.

Instead, Patricia led me deeper into the facility, farther from the office and the road, until we reached a unit at the very back.

17.

She turned to me. “Use the key.”

My fingers felt clumsy as I fitted the brass key into the padlock. It slid in perfectly.

I turned it.

The lock clicked open.

Patricia stepped back. “Lift the door.”

I grabbed the handle at the bottom of the metal roll-up door and pulled.

The unit opened with a hard rattle of metal tracks.

And my father stood up from a folding chair inside.