My father
looked at me.
“You should not be here.”
“I have heard that from almost everyone in the last two days.”
“I mean this time.”
“So do I.”
He lowered his eyes.
We found the lockers near a lower concourse Ethan must have known well. Number 314 was set into a row of dark metal doors, ordinary enough to be overlooked by thousands of people.
The brass key slid into the lock.
For one terrible second, it would not turn.
Then I pushed harder.
A click.
The door opened.
Inside sat a weathered leather satchel.
Nothing else.
Helen photographed it before removing it with gloved hands. She placed it on a nearby bench and opened the buckles.
The first item was a stack of financial records.
My father leaned over them.
“These are the original transfer schedules.”
Jason examined the top page.
“They have Ethan’s digital authorization.”
“But not his signature,”
