An older man leaned on a rake near the shed. Alert eyes. Wary.
“My father,” I said. “Thomas Vance.”
He studied me. Then shook his head.
“Don’t look.”
My stomach dropped.
“He’s not here.”
He introduced himself as Harold, the groundskeeper. Said he knew my father.
Then he handed me a worn envelope.
“He told me to give you this. If you ever came.”
Inside was a letter. A card. And a key.
UNIT 108 — WESTRIDGE STORAGE
The letter was dated three months before my release.
My father had known.
At the storage unit, I opened a world he had hidden—documents, records, proof.
And then a video.
My father appeared on the screen. Pale. Thin. But steady.
“You didn’t do it, Eli,” he said.
