“Yes,” I said. “But shame isn’t a signature.”
Priya’s smile was small. “No, it is not.”
That evening, Abigail drove me to the storage facility where Victor had sent my belongings. Not in Houston, as I assumed, but outside Newark. He had shipped everything across state lines overnight, perhaps to make access harder, perhaps because inconvenience was one of his favorite forms of punishment.
The unit smelled of cardboard, dust, and cedar hangers.
My life sat in numbered boxes.
Clothes folded by strangers. Books stacked spine-down. Wedding china wrapped carefully, as if the plates deserved more respect than the woman who chose them. On top of one box lay our framed anniversary portrait, glass cracked across my face.
Abigail stood quietly near the door while I opened cartons.
I was searching for practical things: documents, old drives, notebooks from Bellamy Freight, anything Victor had missed. But every box held another version of myself I had abandoned by inches. Paintbrushes from the year I wanted to take classes. A half-finished business plan for a consulting firm. Letters from my father tied in blue ribbon.
At the back of the unit, behind a wardrobe box, I found a small steel file case.
I recognized it immediately.
My father’s dispatch case.
Victor told me it had been lost when Bellamy Freight’s office closed.
The lock was old. Abigail found a maintenance worker who opened it with a bolt cutter after verifying my paperwork. Inside were files wrapped in plastic, a ledger, two flash drives, and a sealed envelope addressed in my father’s handwriting.
Lauren, when you are ready.
My knees weakened.
Abigail brought over an upturned box for me to sit on.
I opened the envelope carefully.
Inside was a letter shorter than the one Miles Cresswell had sent, written in the firm, slanted script I had missed every day since the funeral.
My brave girl,
If this reaches you, it means I failed to settle matters cleanly. I am sorry. You will be tempted to blame yourself for trusting someone. Don’t. Trust is not foolish. It is only dangerous when given to a person who studies it as a weakness.
Bellamy Freight is yours. Not because of blood alone, but because you understand what I built. Victor has been asking questions no fiancé should ask and offering help no honest man would offer before being asked.
I have placed protections in the company structure. They are imperfect, but they may slow him down. The controlling interest cannot transfer permanently without your informed consent and a secondary witness from outside the family.
Find Miles. Find Russell Kane. And find the woman named Celia Ward.
I stopped reading.
Celia Ward.
I did not know that name.
Abigail leaned closer. “Who is she?”
“I have no idea.”
There was one final line in my father’s letter.
She knows what Victor wanted before he wanted you.
A chill moved through me.
Before he wanted me.