Chapter 4: What Was in the Storage Unit
I didn't sleep that night.
I lay in my room and listened to the house.
Monica and Kayla had moved to the back bedroom around midnight and stayed there with the door closed.
I could hear the low murmur of voices but not the words.
Dad's office light stayed on until nearly two in the morning.
I saw it under the door when I went to get water.
I almost knocked.
I raised my hand and held it there for a moment.
Then I heard him on the phone — not angry, just exhausted — and I let my hand fall and went back to my room.
By six the next morning, I was dressed and sitting at the kitchen table when Dad came out.
He looked like he hadn't slept either.
His shirt was the same one from last night.
He poured himself coffee, sat down across from me, and slid his phone across the table.
The transaction history was open on the screen.
I looked at it.
Forty-seven transfers over fourteen months.
The payees were a mix — two were names I didn't recognize, one was a company called Riverton Holdings LLC, and eleven of them were listed simply as cash withdrawals made at a branch forty minutes from our house.
"There's no Riverton Holdings in any business registry I can find," Dad said.
"I checked last night."
"What does that mean?"
"It means the money went somewhere they didn't want traced."
I scrolled back up to the top of the list.
The first transfer was dated three weeks after Monica and Dad's wedding.
Three weeks.
"Dad." I set the phone down.
"Kayla said something last night.
About a storage unit."
He was quiet for a moment.
"I know," he said.
"I heard."
"Do you know where it is?"
"Not yet."
He wrapped both hands around his coffee mug and didn't drink from it.
"Your mother's signature," he said.
"On that car paperwork.
I called the dealership this morning.
They open at eight.
I'm going in person."
"I'll come with you."
He shook his head.
"I need you to stay here."
"Dad—"
"Erin." He said my name the way he used to when I was small and he needed me to actually listen.
"I need someone here who notices things.
Can you do that?"
I nodded.
He left at seven-forty-five.
Monica came downstairs at eight-ten, already dressed, keys in her hand.
"Where are you going?" I asked.
"Errands," she said without looking at me.
"Does Dad know?"
She stopped at the door.
Turned around slowly.
"I'm sorry about your car," she said.
"Genuinely.
That was handled badly and I know it upset you."
It was the first time she had ever apologized for anything.
The words were right.
The voice was practiced.
"Thank you," I said, because I didn't know what else to say and I needed her to keep talking.
"Things have been stressful.
Your father and I will work through this." She paused.
"We always do."
Then she left.
I waited until her car cleared the end of the street.
Then I went to her bedroom.
I wasn't looking for anything specific.
I didn't even fully know what I was doing.
I stood in the doorway and looked at the room and tried to think like someone who was hiding something.
The closet was neat.
The dresser was clear.
Nothing under the bed.
I was about to leave when I noticed the spare key hook on the inside of the closet door.
It held three keys on a plain ring — no label, no tag.
One of them had a small orange tab, the kind self-storage facilities use.
I took a photo of it on my phone.
I put it back exactly where it was.
My phone buzzed.
A message from an unknown number.
The same one that had warned Dad last night.
It read: She's not running errands.
May you like
She's going to the unit.
You have about forty minutes.
