UNIT 108
Westridge Storage sat on the edge of town where the roads widened and the buildings got lower. It was the kind of place you wouldn’t notice unless you were looking for it.
A chain-link fence. A keypad gate. Rows of metal doors.
I parked and walked to the office, but it was closed for lunch.
I didn’t care.
I punched in the unit row number from the map posted outside and walked down the aisle of doors until I found it.
108.
The lock looked ordinary.
The key didn’t.
It was worn smooth in places, like my father had held it often. Like he’d carried it in his pocket and touched it when he needed to remind himself he still had a plan.
My hands shook so badly I missed the lock on the first try.
On the second try, it clicked.
I lifted the door.
And the world my father had hidden opened in front of me.
Boxes stacked neatly, labeled in thick black marker:
A metal filing cabinet sat in the back with a small padlock.
And on top of one box was another envelope.
This one was smaller.
And it had one word written on it:
FIRST.
I opened it.
Inside was a flash drive, taped to a note.
The note said:
“Watch before you read.”
My pulse hammered.
I found my old phone in my bag—cheap and basic, something the reentry program had provided. It could still play videos.
I plugged in the flash drive using the adapter Harold had included in the envelope without me noticing.
A folder popped up.
One video file.
Titled:
“Eli — The Truth.”
My finger hovered over it.
Then I pressed play.
