By the time I reached Route 9 Storage, dusk had settled over the highway. The facility sat behind a chain-link fence, past a gas station, a closed diner, and a row of low warehouses with faded signs.
A small American flag snapped sharply beside the office.
Security cameras watched the gate.
And beneath the awning stood a woman in a dark coat, waiting as if she already recognized my car.
Before I could ask who she was, she raised a badge.
Federal Bureau of Investigation.
My stomach dropped.
“Mr. Mercer,” she said, “your father told us you would come alone.”
I looked at the key.
Then at Unit 17.
The storage door was only twenty feet away, but suddenly that distance felt impossible.
“What’s inside?” I asked.
The agent’s face tightened.
“Enough to explain why your father needed an empty coffin.”
Then my phone began to ring.
My mother again.
