The world tilted harder than it had when Vincent told me the coffin was empty.
The baby.
Three days ago I had taken the test. Two pink lines in our bathroom. I had cried in stunned, happy silence while David was at work. I had told no one. Not Mom. Not my best friend Sarah. Not my doctor. No one.
The test was in my glove compartment, wrapped in a CVS receipt.
How did he know?
Had he searched my car?
My purse?
Everything?
Dad’s letter echoed in my head. He was sent to you deliberately to destroy me by destroying what I love most.
My phone buzzed again.
I didn’t look this time.
I drove toward South Congress. Toward Unit 20. Toward answers that were going to destroy everything I thought I knew.
Lonestar Storage sat ten minutes away behind a chain-link fence and a row of orange roll-up doors. It sprawled across a lot just off South Congress, where older auto shops and low office buildings gave way to small warehouses and storage yards. Security lights had just flickered on in the gathering dark.
The place was quiet. Most businesses on that stretch had already closed. A few cars sat in the front lot, but I couldn’t tell which belonged to real customers and which belonged to whatever was waiting for me.
I parked near the office. The engine ticked as it cooled.
My hand was on the door handle when someone knocked on my window.
I jumped so hard my teeth clicked.
A man stood outside, early forties, dark suit despite the Texas heat, hands visible and empty. He held up a leather credential wallet. A badge flashed in the light.
I cracked the window an inch.
“Emma Martinez?”
His voice was calm and professional.
“I’m Agent Michael Carter. FBI. Your father asked me to meet you here.”
I didn’t move.
Anyone could buy a fake badge.
