Chapter 6 - The Dusty Archive
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"What do you mean, a storage code?" I demanded, stepping away from Claire's bed.
"When you moved out of Decatur Street," my father explained, his hands trembling in his coat pockets, "you had thousands of paper files from the early land acquisitions. You didn't trust digital servers back then, so you paid for a secure vault at the industrial archive warehouse on West Hanover Street."
Vanessa snapped her fingers. "Box 417! The historical land titles!"
Ten minutes later, I was in the back of an unmarked police sedan with Detective Ruiz, speeding through the rainy Atlanta streets toward the West Hanover Industrial District. Vanessa and my father followed behind us in my SUV.
The warehouse was massive—a cavernous, windowless concrete structure housing millions of dusty corporate documents dating back fifty years. The smell of old paper and damp concrete filled the air as the night manager led us down Row 41, pointing toward a high shelf near the rear of the building.
"Box 417," the manager said, shining his flashlight upward. "Hasn't been touched since 2010."
Detective Ruiz ordered the manager to use a forklift to bring the heavy wooden crate down to a stainless steel staging table.
The lock on the crate was covered in a thick layer of grey dust. Ruiz snapped the rusted padlock with a pair of bolt cutters and pulled back the lid. Inside were stack upon stack of yellowing folders—blueprints, environmental assessments, and handwritten deeds for the Franklin Corridor project.
"What are we looking for?" I asked, my anxiety spiking as I flipped through old blueprints bearing my own youthful signature.
Ruiz reached deep into the side pocket of the box. Her gloved hand pulled out a thick, black leather ledger that didn't match the rest of the corporate filings.
She laid it flat on the metal table and opened the cover.
Inside, tucked neatly between the pages, was a sealed, yellowed envelope addressed to my father: Isaiah Sloane - Personal & Confidential.
May you like
I looked up at my father, who was standing near the edge of the warehouse row, refusing to step any closer.
"Dad," I said, my voice dangerously calm. "Why is there an envelope addressed to you inside my company’s archived records?"
