CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

Mia Ripley sat in her car, the engine ticking as it cooled, the acrid stench of burnt paper and scorched upholstery still thick in her nostrils. On her lap lay the remnants of Martin”s life, a handful of half-charred files snatched from the smoldering ruin of his beloved ride.

The uniform at the scene had been happy to let Mia take them, eager to wash his hands of the whole sordid affair. ‘All yours, Agent Ripley,’ he”d said, eyes skittering away from her face like cockroaches from a lit match.

Problem. That”s what Martin had become. A problem to be solved, a puzzle to be pieced together from the ashes of his existence.

Ripley”s fingers shook as she flipped through the pages, because she didn’t expect this.

The documents in her hands were Martin Godfrey’s entire life in paper form.

Vehicle registration forms, tax returns, mortgage statements. A paper trail of a life lived, now reduced to so much kindling.

But why? Why torch it all, erase every trace of himself like a ghost slipping its chains? Was he running from something? Someone? Trying to disappear without a trace, leave nothing behind but smoke and questions?

The thoughts chased each other round and round Ripley”s skull like rabid dogs, but no matter how hard she chewed on it, she couldn”t make it make sense. Couldn”t reconcile the man she”d loved, the man she”d shared her bed and her heart with, with this stranger who”d set his own life ablaze and vanished into the night.

And amongst these seemingly ordinary documents, one stood out from the pack.

Her fingers closed on a file at the top of the stack, the edges curled and blackened but the contents still legible. A lease agreement, dated six months prior. Martin”s signature scrawled across the bottom like a dead man”s last words.

This contract confirms that Martin Godfrey agrees to rent storage unit #247 at Dover Self Storage, located at 1456 Industrial Park Road, for the purpose of personal storage. The unit measures 10x10 and will be leased on a month-to-month basis at a rate of $85 per month.

Ripley”s heart kicked against her ribs. A storage unit. Rented under Martin”s name, squirreled away on the outskirts of town. The perfect place to stash his secrets, hide his sins away from prying eyes.

Kerosene. He”d said he needed kerosene, offhand and casual as a comment on the weather. For his lawnmower, his model airplanes. All those little projects that ate up his time and kept him out of her hair.

This was where he kept it. Kerosene that was also found on her ex-husband’s corpse. Perhaps Trevor had died in that same place.

This was it. The bread crumb, the thread to follow into the labyrinth. If Martin was hiding anything, playing any twisted games, the answers would be in that storage shed.

She had to go. Had to see, even if it killed her. Even if it shattered her heart into a million jagged pieces and left her bleeding out on the floor.

Ripley threw the address into the GPS.

1456 Industrial Park Road.

One mile away.

Close enough to walk to after ditching your car and setting fire to it in this empty lot.

She could be there in ninety seconds.

Ninety seconds between her and the truth.