PART7
The storage facility was twenty minutes from my house.
Marcus drove.
I sat in the passenger seat with my injured ankle elevated as much as the cramped space allowed.
Neither of us spoke for the first ten minutes.
Then Marcus said, “Are you sure you want to go?”
“No.”
He glanced at me.
“But I’m going anyway.”
Because I had spent eight months avoiding uncomfortable truths.
I wasn’t going to spend another night hiding from one.
The storage facility was nearly empty when we arrived.
Rows of metal doors stretched beneath harsh fluorescent lights.
Melissa had given me the unit number.
We found it near the back.
Marcus stopped.
“You want me to open it?”
I nodded.
The lock wasn’t broken.
It was new.
Marcus cut it with the facility’s emergency equipment after the police arrived.
Officer Reynolds had insisted we not enter alone.
The metal door rolled upward.
Inside were boxes.
Dozens of them.
Clothes.
Kitchen appliances.
Old furniture.
Then Marcus pointed toward the back.
“There.”
A black plastic storage bin sat beneath a blanket.
Officer Reynolds put on gloves.
She opened it.
Inside was a thick blue folder.
My name was written across the front.
STEPHEN CARTER — PROPERTY
My stomach tightened.
She opened it.
The first pages were copies of my mortgage.
Then my tax records.
Insurance information.
Bank statements.
A copy of my driver’s license.
A photocopy of my signature.
And finally, several forms with my name typed across the top.
One was a power-of-attorney document.
Another was a home-equity application.
Another appeared to authorize someone to communicate with a lender on my behalf.
I stared at them.
“I never signed those.”
Officer Reynolds nodded.
“We know.”
She turned another page.
There was a handwritten note.
Need original signature.
Below it was another sentence.
Get him to sign when injured or medicated.
My stomach turned.
They hadn’t just planned to steal from me.
They had planned to manipulate me when I was vulnerable.
Marcus looked furious.
But Officer Reynolds remained calm.
“There’s more.”
She reached into the folder.
A photograph fell out.
It was a picture of my house.
Taken from across the street.
My front door.
My driveway.
“Who took that?”
“We’ll find out,” the officer said.
Then she pulled out another piece of paper.
It was an insurance estimate.
My house had been valued at substantially more than I had expected.
And beside the estimated value was a handwritten calculation.
Possible payout after fire: $___
I couldn’t finish reading it.
I stepped backward.
Marcus caught my shoulder.
“Stephen.”
I whispered:
“They were really going to burn my house.”
Officer Reynolds didn’t dismiss it.
She photographed everything.
Then she said:
“We need to find Dario.”
We didn’t have to.
Because my phone rang.
Melissa.
I answered.
“Where are you?”
She was crying.
“I don’t know what to do.”
“Where is Dario?”
“I left him.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know.”
“Melissa.”
“I swear!”
I heard traffic in the background.
Then she said:
“He found out I talked to you.”
My jaw tightened.
“What did he do?”
“He said I ruined everything.”
“Where is he now?”
“I think he’s going to your house.”
I looked at Marcus.
“What?”
“He said he needed to get something.”
My heart stopped.
“What something?”
“I don’t know.”
“Melissa, listen to me carefully. What did he take from the storage unit?”
She was silent.
“Melissa.”
“The blue folder.”
I looked at the folder in Officer Reynolds’s hand.
“No,” I whispered.
“What?”
“He didn’t take it.”
Melissa started crying harder.
“He said there was another copy.”
My entire body went cold.
“Where?”
“I don’t know.”
“Melissa!”
She finally answered.
“At your house.”
I hung up.
We called the police dispatcher.
Two officers went directly to my property.
Another stayed with us.
When we arrived, the front door was open.
Marcus pulled me back.
“Stay here.”
But before anyone could move, the lights inside the house came on.
A shadow crossed the hallway.
Dario.
He stepped into the doorway.
He looked exhausted.
Desperate.
And angry.
His eyes landed on me.
“You.”
I said nothing.
Officer Reynolds stepped forward.
“Dario, step away from the door.”
He laughed.
“You have no idea what she’s done.”
I looked at him.
“What have I done?”
