Five years ago.
Right when I met David.
“He knew they were getting close,” Vincent said.
“I saw him,” I whispered. “At the viewing. I saw my father’s body.”
“You saw what he wanted you to see, ma’am.”
A chill ran down my spine despite the warm Texas afternoon. This man, this stranger with dirt under his fingernails and eyes that had seen too many graves, was either telling me the truth or he was completely out of his mind.
“I’m calling the police.”
I reached for my phone, but Vincent Hayes shook his head hard.
“Don’t.”
He pressed something into my palm. Cold metal. Small. Solid.
“Your father said you’d want to call someone,” he said. “Said you were a lawyer. Always needing proof. Always needing to make sense of things. He said to give you this. Said you’d understand.”
I looked down.
A brass key, worn smooth with age, with the number 20 stamped into the head.
“What is this?”
“Unit 20. Lonestar Storage on South Congress. Your father said to go there right away.”
Then he reached into his jacket and pulled out an envelope, yellowed at the edges. My name was written across the front in Dad’s unmistakable handwriting, the same handwriting I had seen on birthday cards, school notes, and the title to my first car.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. I ignored it, staring at the envelope like it might explode.
“Ma’am.”
