The concrete room contained only a single folding chair, an LED camping lantern casting a harsh white glow, three large jugs of water, a heavy steel legal file box, and a piece of personal property that made my breath catch violently in my throat.
It was my mother’s navy leather handbag. The gold clasp caught the lantern light.
It was the exact same handbag the local police told me had been found inside my father’s study, sitting on his desk right next to his collapsed body.
An envelope was taped to the leather strap. My name was written across the front in her neat, precise cursive.
For Nathan. If you’re reading this, they lied to you first.
My chest tightened until it felt like my ribs would snap. They lied to you first. Who was “they”? My father? The police? My mother herself, who was supposedly waiting for me at home right now?
The rhythmic, electronic beeping behind the file box grew sharper, louder.
“Mr. Vance,” the agent whispered, her voice laced with sudden urgency as she stepped into the unit beside me. “Grab the file box. We need to leave. Now.”
Before my fingers could even touch the metal handles, the sharp crunch of tires over gravel erupted from the entrance of the storage facility. High-beam headlights cut through the gathering dusk, blinding us as a dark SUV tore down the narrow alleyway and skidded to a halt directly behind my car.
