Bellmere Heritage Storage existed.
Old commercial building on the east side of the city.
Private archival storage.
Estate materials.
Art.
Documents.
Family collections.
Appointment only.
I searched the locker number.
Nothing.
Then the woman.
Impossible.
I did not have a name.
I zoomed in on the photograph again.
On the wall behind Adrian and the woman was a framed poster.
Most of it was blurred.
But one word was visible.
HARTWELL.
My stomach tightened.
My mother’s maiden name was Hartwell.
I stared at it.
Then told myself that proved nothing.
Hartwell was not an impossible surname.
There were probably thousands of Hartwells.
Still, my hands had started shaking.
I went back upstairs.
Adrian was awake.
He stood near the window wearing pajama pants, hair sticking up on one side.
When I entered, relief crossed his face.
“Where were you?”
“Downstairs.”
“At seven-thirty?”
“I needed coffee.”
He looked at my empty hands.
