None had a safe-deposit box numbered 317.
The farm had no locker with that number.
Neither did the insurance company.
Luis called from the window.
“There was a room 317.”
We turned.
“At the old county grain exchange,” he said. “Daniel used to attend auctions there.”
“The exchange was demolished,” I said.
“The main building was. The records annex still exists.”
Clara searched the address on her phone.
The annex had been converted into a private storage facility fifteen years earlier.
Priya contacted the owner.
Unit 317 was still registered to D. Carter.
The rental fees had been prepaid for twenty years.
By noon, we stood inside a narrow concrete hallway beneath buzzing fluorescent lights.
The manager unlocked the outer door but refused to open the unit itself.
“That key belongs to the renter,” he said.
My hand shook as I inserted the silver key.
The lock turned.
The metal door opened.
The room beyond was almost empty.
