Chapter 6: The Storage Unit
The unit was registered under a name I didn't recognize — Thomas Briggs — but the address Natalie gave matched a facility on the east side of Tempe, twenty minutes from the house.
Diana made two calls from the car.
By the time we arrived, a locksmith and a process server were already waiting in the parking lot.
"The unit is registered to a fictitious name," Diana said, "but the rental agreement was signed with a credit card linked to Michael's personal account.
That gives us standing."
The locksmith cut the padlock in under a minute.
Inside: filing boxes, stacked six high along both walls.
A folding table with a laptop.
A fireproof safe bolted to the floor in the back corner.
Robert walked the perimeter slowly, reading labels on the boxes without touching them.
"These go back eight years," he said.
Diana photographed everything before anyone moved a single box.
I opened the nearest one.
Bank statements.
Carter Freight letterhead.
Wire confirmations.
Names of companies I had never heard of — Meridian Logistics, SunState Holdings, Blue Arch Consulting.
"These are the shells," Diana said, looking over my shoulder.
"Carter Freight moves money into these, they move it back out in smaller amounts, it surfaces clean."
"For how long?"
"Based on what I'm seeing?
At least six years."
I thought about six years ago.
Michael and I had just bought the house.
He'd been attentive that year — flowers on the counter, weekend trips, the version of him I had told myself was the real one.
The version I had held onto through everything that came after.
He had been laundering money while I thought we were building a life.
Robert crouched in front of the safe.
"Do you have a combination?"
I shook my head.
He stood and turned to Diana.
"We'll need a forensic locksmith for this one.
I don't want to damage what's inside."
My phone rang.
I looked at the screen.
Linda Carter.
I answered it.
"Rachel." Her voice was clipped, controlled.
"I don't know what you think you're doing, but you need to stop.
Whatever Robert Hayes has told you, he has his own reasons for being involved in our family's business.
He is not your friend."
"Good morning, Linda."
"Michael is prepared to be reasonable.
We all are.
This can be resolved privately, without courts, without lawyers, without destroying a family over a misunderstanding."
"A misunderstanding," I said.
"You signed those documents willingly.
No one forced your hand."
"Michael told me they were tax filings."
"You're an accountant, Rachel.
You should have read what you signed."
There it was.
Ten years in one sentence.
Whatever goes wrong, you should have known better.
"I did read them," I said.
"Eventually.
And I've had a very productive night."
Silence on her end.
"Linda, I'm standing in a storage unit in Tempe right now.
There are eight years of financial records in here.
I think you should call your own attorney."
"You're making a mistake."
"I've been making mistakes for ten years," I said.
"I'm done."
I ended the call.
Diana was watching me from across the unit.
"She'll call Michael," I said.
"Yes," Diana said.
"Which means we have about thirty minutes before he does something."
Robert's phone buzzed.
He read the screen and looked up.
"The forensic locksmith is twenty minutes out," he said.
"But I just received something else." He turned the phone toward me.
A photograph — a document, photographed in low light.
"My contact at the Corporation Commission.
This was filed yesterday afternoon.
Someone tried to remove your name as registered agent and replace it with a new designee."
I looked at the name on the filing.
Natalie Brennan.
I looked at Diana.
"He was going to put her in my place," I said.
"He was going to hand her the liability."
Diana's jaw tightened.
"And she had no idea."
Outside, a car turned slowly into the parking lot.
May you like
It wasn't the locksmith.
It was Michael.
