Chapter 4 - UNIT 214
Grandma had rented a storage unit for nearly twenty years.
After she died, Dad told us he cleaned it out.
Apparently, he lied.
Ruiz didn't want me going alone.
Neither did Jasmine.
So at 9:30 that morning, the three of us stood outside Lakeview Self Storage while the manager searched old records.
“Evelyn Carter,” he said, scrolling.
Then he nodded.
“Unit 214.”
My heart jumped.
“Still active?”
“Paid every year.”
“By who?”
He frowned at the screen.
“Automatic payment from Silver Pine Holdings.”
Ruiz and I exchanged a look.
The manager led us down a concrete hallway.
Unit 214 had a new padlock.
Ruiz photographed it before authorization was obtained to cut it.
When the metal door finally rolled upward, dust floated through the fluorescent light.
Boxes.
Furniture.
Grandma’s old green armchair.
Her sewing machine.
Christmas decorations.
And a gray filing cabinet.
I walked toward it.
Ruiz stopped me.
“Let me.”
The first drawer contained tax returns.
The second held property records.
The third was locked.
The manager cut the tiny lock.
Inside were three binders.
One was labeled HANNAH.
One MELISSA.
One ROBERT.
Robert was my father.
I opened mine.
The first page was a letter written in Grandma’s handwriting.
My sweet Hannah,
If you are reading this, something has gone wrong.
I sat down on a box.
My legs suddenly felt weak.
The letter continued.
Your father has been asking me for money again. I have helped him many times, but I no longer believe I am helping. I believe I am feeding a problem.
Dad had always claimed Grandma lived simply because she had little money.
The documents proved otherwise.
She owned investments worth almost $600,000.
In the final year of her life, she had created separate inheritance accounts for Melissa and me.
$150,000 each.
My pulse hammered.
I had never received $150,000.
Not one dollar.
I flipped pages.
There it was.
My account.
Three weeks after Grandma died, the entire balance had been transferred.
Recipient:
Silver Pine Holdings.
Authorized by:
Robert Carter, estate executor.
My father.
Jasmine whispered, “Oh my God.”
I opened Melissa’s binder.
Same amount.
Same transfer.
But one document was different.
A handwritten note from Grandma.
Robert does not know I made copies.
If he takes this money, Hannah must know.
There was also a business card.
MARTIN DALE — ATTORNEY AT LAW.
Ruiz took a picture.
“I think we should talk to him.”
We were about to leave when Jasmine noticed another box behind the filing cabinet.
“Hannah.”
It was marked MORNING FINCH.
Inside were old bakery photographs.
Receipts.
Grandma’s handwritten business plan.
And a sealed envelope with my name.
I opened it.
Inside was a property deed.
I read it twice.
Then a third time.
Grandma had purchased the building where Morning Finch operated seventeen years earlier.
The building I believed I was renting from a private investment company.
The deed showed she had transferred ownership into a trust.
Beneficiary:
Hannah Carter.
I looked at Ruiz.
“I own the bakery building?”
“Looks like it.”
Jasmine picked up another document.
Her face changed.
“Hannah.”
“What?”
“This building was used as collateral.”
I grabbed the page.
A loan had been taken against the property.
$275,000.
Four months earlier.
The signature at the bottom said:
May you like
HANNAH CARTER.
But I had never signed it.
