Chapter 15
The manager at the Carroll Avenue storage facility confirmed that much before I ever saw the door.
He was an older man named Harris who had managed the place since 2003. He wore reading glasses low on his nose and did not seem impressed by my name.
I found that refreshing.
“Account was prepaid,” he said, studying an old computer screen. “Long-term arrangement.”
“By who?”
He clicked through several records.
“Originally?”
“Yes.”
“Lakefront Development.”
Mateo and I exchanged a look.
“Then ownership changed,” Harris continued.
“To whom?”
“Private trust.”
“What trust?”
He adjusted his glasses.
“Mercer Educational Trust.”
I stared at him.
“Evelyn Mercer?”
“No name listed. Just the trust.”
“When was that transfer?”
“2011.”
The year my mother died.
I rested both hands on the counter.
“Who has access?”
“According to this, only someone holding the original key and matching a name on file.”
“And the name?”
He looked at me.
“Dominic Valente.”
I almost laughed.
Not because anything was funny.
Because somewhere in the past, people had made decisions about my life while I walked around believing I was the one controlling everyone else’s.
Harris photocopied my identification and led us through a narrow corridor.
The building smelled of concrete, cardboard, and dust.
At Unit 18, he stopped.
“This lock hasn’t been replaced since I’ve worked here.”
I took out the brass key.
It slid in easily.
For a moment, I could not turn it.
Mateo stood beside me.
“You don’t have to do this alone.”
“I know.”
It was an unfamiliar answer.
Once, I would have told him to stay outside.
Instead, I turned the key.
The lock opened.
Inside were twelve archive boxes.
A metal filing cabinet.
A wooden desk.
And nothing else.
No fortune.
No hidden weapons.
No dramatic evidence arranged like something from a movie.
Just paper.
Paper had caused more damage in my family than anything else ever could.
Mateo switched on the overhead light.
Dust floated through the beam.
I walked toward the first box.
On the lid, in my father’s handwriting, were two words.
HARBOR RIDGE.
I knew his handwriting instantly.
Strong block letters.
He had written birthday cards the same way.
PROUD OF YOU.
Even when I had done nothing worth being proud of.
I opened the box.
Bank records.
Property deeds.
Internal memos.
Photocopies of checks.
Mateo opened another.
“Dom.”
I looked over.
He held a ledger.
Inside were names.