“That isn’t my husband.”
Martin looked relieved and terrified at the same time.
“You’re sure?”
“I slept beside Robert for thirty-four years. I’m sure.”
But whoever the stranger was, he looked enough like Robert to fool almost anyone else.
A horrible thought came to me.
“Can you show me what he signed?”
Martin retrieved yesterday’s visitor sheet.
The signature read:
Robert A. Whitmore.
It looked almost perfect.
Almost.
Robert had always made the final stroke of the W unusually long.
This signature didn’t.
I looked at Martin.
“Take me to the unit.”
The storage building smelled of dust, concrete, and cold metal.
Unit 314 was at the far end of a corridor.
I pushed the brass key into the lock.
It turned.
When the door rolled upward, I expected old furniture.
Instead, I found a room filled with carefully labeled boxes.
DANIEL —
SCHOOL YEARS
EVELYN
LAKE HOUSE
