Chapter 12 - The Storage Unit
The storage facility sat behind a row of auto-repair shops twenty minutes outside the city.
Unit 418.
The rental account used Caroline Prescott’s name.
My dead wife had been paying thirty-nine dollars a month for eight years.
Except she hadn’t.
Martin had.
The police photographed everything before we touched it.
Inside stood six file boxes.
A metal cabinet.
Two old laptops.
And a plastic tote marked CHRISTMAS LIGHTS.
Martin had always hated Christmas lights.
Caroline loved them.
The label felt obscene.
The original ledgers were inside.
So were copies of contracts Arthur had never seen.
Bank statements.
Vendor approvals.
A second signature stamp with my name.
Not electronic.
Physical.
An exact reproduction of my signature mounted in black rubber.
I stared at it through the evidence bag.
My identity reduced to three inches of rubber and wood.
Hannah whispered, “He could sign anything.”
“He did.”
The detective opened the metal cabinet.
Inside were photographs.
Me leaving restaurants.
Hannah taking Leo to school.
My house.
The Prescott office.
Florence had not collected all of them.
Some were dated before she entered my life.
Martin had been documenting us for years.
“Why?” Hannah asked.
Nobody answered.
Then they found the recorder.
A digital voice recorder.
Twenty-nine files.
We listened in order.
Most were conversations between Martin and Florence.
Arguments.
Money.
Deadlines.
Threats.
Their relationship sounded less like partners and more like prisoners chained together.
Then file twenty-three.
Florence’s voice.
“If Jonathan won’t sign, we need pressure.”
Martin.
“Leave Hannah out of this.”
Florence.
“You already put her shares under review.”
Martin.
“That was legal pressure.”
Florence laughed.
“Legal.”
Martin.
“Do not touch Leo.”
My hand tightened.
Florence.
“I’m not touching anyone.”
Martin.
“You mentioned his school.”
Florence.
“I mentioned that Jonathan has one weakness left.”
Martin.
“His daughter.”
Florence.
“No.”
A pause.
“His grandson.”
Hannah stood up so fast her chair fell.
“Turn it off.”
I did.
She paced to the wall.
Her hands shook.
I wanted to comfort her.
I also wanted to hear every word.
That conflict made me feel monstrous.
The detective said softly, “We need the rest.”
Hannah nodded.
“I know.”
She sat again.
I pressed play.
Martin.
“If you go near that child, I’m done.”
Florence.
“You’ve been done for years.”
Martin.
“I mean it.”
Florence.
“So do I.”
Another pause.
“I don’t need to hurt him.”
My stomach turned.
“I just need Jonathan to believe I might.”
Hannah closed her eyes.
Martin’s voice came quieter.
“You love him.”
Florence did not answer.
Then Martin said, “That’s why you hate yourself.”
The file ended.
The next recording had been made three weeks later.
Florence sounded different.
Crying.
“I can’t marry him.”
Martin.
“You have to.”
“No.”
“You wanted this.”
“I wanted him ruined.”
“And?”
“I don’t anymore.”
Silence.
Then Martin.
“You moved the money.”
“I’ll give it back.”
“You drugged Hannah’s reputation for six months.”
“I never touched her.”
“Not yet.”
“I’m done.”
Martin’s voice hardened.
“If you walk now, I give prosecutors Northline.”
Florence laughed through tears.
“And I give them Bellweather.”
“Then we both go down.”
“Yes.”
Another silence.
Martin said, “Think about your father.”
Florence’s voice changed.
“Do not use him.”
“You spent twenty years hating Jonathan Prescott.”
“I hated the wrong man.”
That sentence hit me harder than I expected.
Martin answered.
“Then hate me.”
“I do.”
“Good.”
His chair scraped.
“But you still need me.”
The recording ended.
Hannah looked at me.
I didn’t know what expression I wore.
“Dad.”
“She knew.”
“Yes.”
“She knew I hadn’t done it.”
“Yes.”
“And she stayed.”
Hannah took my hand.
“That’s on her.”
I nodded.
It did not make the grief smaller.
We played the final recording.
It was dated two days before the wedding.
Martin.
“Hannah copied the trust folder.”
Florence swore.
Martin.
“I told you not to push her.”
“You filed the share review.”
“Because you said she was close.”
“What does she have?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then we postpone.”
“No.”
“Martin—”
“We finish.”
“Jonathan won’t sign if Hannah confronts him.”
“Then Hannah doesn’t confront him.”
A pause.
Florence.
“What are you suggesting?”
Martin.
“You already have the pills.”
Hannah inhaled sharply.
Florence.
“For Jonathan.”
Every person in the unit went still.
Martin.
“No.”
“What?”
“I said no.”
“Those were supposed to make him look disoriented at dinner.”
“Yes.”
“Not knock him out.”
Silence.
Then Florence.
“You want me to drug Hannah.”
Martin did not answer.
Florence.
“Say it.”
Still nothing.
“Say it, Martin.”
Finally.
“Keep her home.”
The recording ended.
I stared at the device.
For days, Martin had insisted drugging Hannah was Florence’s plan.
It wasn’t.
He suggested it.
Maybe not explicitly enough for his conscience.
Explicitly enough for hers.
Hannah cried silently.
Not because the truth surprised her.
Because certainty hurt differently than suspicion.
The detective packed the recorder.
“We have enough for more charges.”
I barely heard him.
A phone rang.
Hannah checked hers.
Unknown number.
Everyone froze.
The detective signaled.
She answered on speaker.
“Hello?”
Leo’s voice came through.
“Mommy?”
Hannah’s entire body changed.
“Baby?”
“Mommy, where are you?”
Her eyes shot to me.
Leo was supposed to be with Ruth and Margaret.
“Where are you?”
“I don’t know.”
A woman spoke in the background.
Soft.
Familiar.
“Tell her you’re okay.”
Florence.
Hannah stood.
“Florence.”
“Hi, Hannah.”
Every officer in the unit started moving.
Hannah’s voice broke.
“What did you do?”
“Nothing.”
“Where is my son?”
“He’s safe.”
“Put him back on.”
“Soon.”
I grabbed the phone.
“Florence.”
Silence.
Then her voice.
“Jonathan.”
“If you hurt him—”
“I won’t.”
“You already have.”
“No.”
“You took him.”
“I needed you to listen.”
“I’m listening.”
“I want the red notebook.”
I looked at Caroline’s notebook inside an evidence bag across the room.
“And the storage key.”
“The police already opened the unit.”
For the first time, Florence lost control.
“What?”
“You’re too late.”
Silence.
Then a whisper.
“Martin.”
“He gave it to us.”
Another silence.
When Florence spoke again, her voice was no longer angry.
It was empty.
“He chose himself.”
“Yes.”
“He always does.”
“Where is Leo?”
She breathed.
“I’ll call you.”
“Florence.”
The line died.
Hannah screamed.
Not dramatically.
Not like television.
One raw sound from somewhere below language.
Then she grabbed my jacket.
“You get him back.”
I held her wrists.
“We will.”
“No.”
Her eyes locked on mine.
“Don’t tell me what people say when they don’t know.”
She was right.
So I changed it.
“I will do everything I can.”
Her grip loosened.
The detective rushed back.
“Ruth’s apartment.”
“What?”
“Leo was taken twenty minutes ago.”
“How?”
“A woman in a hospital uniform knocked.”
Hannah went white.
“She said you had been in an accident.”
Florence had not grabbed Leo from a playground.
She had used fear.
May you like
Again.
And this time, she knew exactly which door it opened.
