the bus to a storage facility in the city.
“Your father used to come here when he was already very sick,” he told me. “He said a son shouldn’t leave prison empty-handed.”
Storage Unit 108 sat at the end of a dusty hallway lined with rusted metal doors. The key turned effortlessly in the lock.
When I rolled up the metal door, I didn’t find old furniture or boxes of clothes.
I found a room full of evidence.
There were filing cabinets, envelopes, and folders labeled in black marker:
BANKS.
