I set the red chest on the workbench and lifted the lid. The smell of oil and old wood rose up, so familiar that my eyes stung. Daniel’s wrenches lay in their usual order, but the bottom tray looked wrong. It sat too high, as though something had been hidden beneath it. I slid the tray out and found a thick manila envelope taped to the metal, my name written across it in Daniel’s slanted handwriting.

My hands shook as I peeled it free. Inside was a bank passbook, a small brass key, and a note dated three weeks before he died. Then headlights swept across the garage door. A car door slammed, and Brian’s voice shouted from the driveway, “Claire, open up, we know about the storage unit!” Rachel was crying. I looked down at the note, and the first line made my blood run cold.