Whoever had taken the wooden box had either known exactly where to look or had removed it before anything else was disturbed.

I returned to the bedroom and opened my wardrobe.

A small velvet pouch lay at the bottom of a storage container.

I recognized it immediately.

It held the key my father had given me.

I had kept it after deciding it didn’t fit the lock.

I pulled it out and examined it under the light.

The brass was worn.

The bow of the key had a small engraved letter on one side.

I had never paid attention to it before.

An A.

My father’s first initial.

I turned the key over.

On the other side was a tiny number.

Seven.

I showed it to Nick.

“Do you remember your father saying anything about this?””

I shook my head.

“Only that I should keep it safe.””

I looked at the key for another moment.

Then I remembered something else.

My father had once taken me to a small storage facility when I was a teenager.

He kept boxes there containing old photographs, tax records, and documents from his business.

After he died, my mother told me the storage unit had been closed.

She said there was nothing important left inside.

I had never questioned her.

Now I wondered whether the key was meant for something there rather than the wooden box.

The number seven.

The letter A.

A storage facility.

It was a possibility, not proof.

But it was the first lead I had.

Nick stood.

“We can check the paperwork from his estate.””

“Mom handled all of it.””

“Then we’ll need independent records.””

I looked at him.

“You really think she might have hidden something?””

“I think we have enough reason to investigate before trusting another explanation.””

He didn’t accuse her.

He didn’t tell me what to believe.

He simply reminded me that I was allowed to ask questions.

I sat down at my desk and opened my laptop.

I searched through old photographs from the year my father died.

There were hundreds.

Family dinners.

Birthday parties.

A holiday trip.

Pictures of my father standing in the garden behind our old house.

I kept scrolling until I found a photograph taken in the storage facility.

I was seventeen.

My father stood beside a row of metal doors, holding the wooden box.

Behind him, a small white label was attached to one of the units.

I zoomed in.

The image was blurry, but I could make out the number.

Seven.

My heart began beating faster.

I opened another photograph.

This one showed my father speaking to a man whose face was partly obscured by the camera angle.

The same storage unit appeared in the background.

On the man’s clipboard was a document with a logo I vaguely recognized.

A private storage company.

I searched the company name.

It still existed.

Its website listed a location across town.

I looked at Nick.

“Do you think we should go there?””

He considered it.

“First, let’s call and ask what records they can provide. If the unit was closed, we need to know when and by whom.””

I nodded.

That was sensible.

We weren’t going to break into anything or make assumptions about who owned what.

We needed facts.

I found the company’s telephone number and called.

After a short wait, a representative answered.

I explained that my father had once rented a unit there and that I was trying to establish whether the account had been closed.

She asked for his name.

I gave it to her.

There was a pause as she checked the records.

Then she asked for the approximate year.

I supplied the date.

Another pause followed.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“I can’t discuss account details without verifying your authorization.””

I understood.

I explained that I was his daughter and could provide identification or estate documents.

She asked me to email the relevant paperwork and said the company would review the request.

It wasn’t the answer I wanted.

But it was a starting point.

I thanked her and ended the call.

Nick watched me carefully.

“What now?””

I looked at the envelope containing the documents my mother wanted me to sign.

Then at the key in my hand.

Then at the photograph of my father beside storage unit seven.

“Now we find out what she was trying to keep from me.””

My phone vibrated again.

This time, the message came from Vanessa.

You need to stop before you make everything worse.

I stared at the words.

Another message followed.

You don’t understand what your father agreed to.

I read it twice.

Then I handed the phone to Nick.

His face changed as he read the screen.

“Did she just say your father agreed to something?””

“Yes.””