storage receipt.
Noah stared down at the address, frowning. “Dad told me he was living out of a motel near Seattle that spring while looking for work.”
“That’s what he told me, too,” I said quietly.
Two days later, Daniel announced he had another urgent business flight to the Bay Area. But as soon as his car turned down the street, I packed an overnight bag, left a note for Noah, and drove south toward Eureka.
The storage unit was located in a fog-drenched industrial park near the bay. Daniel had kept the rental active under his middle name—Whitmore, Edward D.—for twenty-two years, auto-paid from a private account I had never seen. When I presented my identification along with our joint financial power of attorney to the manager, an elderly clerk looked at the file and nodded without question.
The roll-up metal door groaned as I pulled it open.
Inside
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