At my father’s graveside, the gravedigger gripped my arm and whispered, “Sir, your father paid me to bury an empty coffin.” Before I could even speak, he pushed a brass key into my hand. “Don’t go home,” he warned.

Part 2

My hands shook so badly I dropped the key twice, the metallic clatter echoing unnaturally loud against the concrete floor.

The FBI agent stood perfectly still, her hand resting near the lapel of her coat, eyes scanning the perimeter of the dark facility.

When I finally rammed the key into the padlock, snapped it open, and threw up the heavy rolling metal door, I froze.

Inside, there was no furniture. No boxes of old family memories. No holiday decorations.