Chapter 5: The Storage Unit My Father Feared
At seven the next morning, Jasmine picked me up outside a gas station three blocks from my house.
I had told my father I was leaving early for the competition's verification meeting. Technically, I wasn't lying. I simply hadn't mentioned that the meeting wasn't my first stop.
Jasmine glanced at the brass key in my hand.
"Are we about to discover a secret fortune?""
"I'd settle for an explanation.""
"An explanation would be nice. A fortune would pay for your New York apartment.""
Despite everything, I laughed.
It was the first time I'd laughed since Vanessa slapped me.
The storage facility sat behind a chain-link fence beside an old warehouse. We signed in at the front office, where a sleepy attendant checked my identification.
"Unit 214," he said.
"Your mother rented that space years ago. The account's been paid through the end of the month.""
I looked at Jasmine.
"Someone is still paying for it?""
The attendant shrugged.
"Automatic payment, I think.""
He handed me a flashlight.
"Watch your step. The back corridor floods when it rains.""
Unit 214 stood at the end of a narrow hallway smelling of dust, cardboard, and damp concrete.
My key turned in the lock.
The metal door rolled upward with a grinding shriek.
Inside were six cardboard boxes, two garment racks, a dress form, and a large wooden trunk.
My mother had preserved an entire piece of her life here.
I stepped inside slowly.
On the first garment rack hung several dresses in protective covers. Their silhouettes were unmistakable: my mother's signature cuts, delicate embroidery, and dramatic skirts.
Jasmine carefully lifted one cover.
"These are incredible.""
I touched the sleeve of a midnight-blue gown.
"She made this for a charity gala.""
"You remember it?""
"I remember her staying up three nights finishing the beading.""
My fingers moved over the fabric.
She had told me that dressmaking was a kind of language. Every line, every fold, every hidden seam communicated something words couldn't.
I wondered how many conversations had been left unfinished when she died.
The wooden trunk was locked.
The brass key opened it.
Inside lay dozens of sketchbooks, folders, photographs, and a black binder stamped with the name of a company I'd never heard of: *Hale Atelier Group*.
Jasmine lifted a folder.
"Nia, look at this.""
It contained contracts dated five years earlier, each bearing my mother's signature.
The first document described a collection called The Unforgotten Garden, featuring wine-red gowns embroidered with roses.
My mother's red dress.
The same dress I'd found in her sketchbook.
Except the contract stated that the collection had been developed jointly by my mother and Martin Hale.
Another document described a licensing agreement.
My mother would retain ownership of her original designs, while Hale Atelier would receive permission to produce selected pieces for a national fashion campaign.
The final page carried a handwritten note.
Martin has agreed to remove my name from the collection until the ownership dispute is resolved.
I frowned.
"Why would she agree to that?""
Jasmine turned the page.
There was a letter in my mother's handwriting.
Martin says the sponsors will withdraw if the collection is associated with a legal dispute. He insists this is temporary. David believes I should accept the agreement until the exhibition is over.
David.
My father's name.
I continued reading.
I am beginning to understand why Martin needs my signature. The designs were never his, but he has been presenting them as his own for months. I have copies of everything. If anything happens to me, David knows where the originals are.
My hands went cold.
Jasmine took the letter from me.
"Read that last sentence again.""
I did.
If anything happens to me, David knows where the originals are.
My mother had anticipated the possibility that something might happen to her.
I wanted to believe she had simply been worried about losing her work.
Then I found a newspaper clipping tucked into the folder.
*ATLANTA DESIGNER KILLED IN HIGHWAY COLLISION; POLICE INVESTIGATE POSSIBLE VEHICLE TAMPERING.*
The article was dated two days after her death.
I read the headline three times.
"Vehicle tampering?"" Jasmine whispered.
I scanned the article.
According to the report, investigators had found evidence that a component in my mother's braking system had been damaged before the crash. The damage could have resulted from a mechanical failure or deliberate interference.
The case had been closed after investigators failed to identify a suspect.
My father had never told me any of this.
Beneath the clipping was a photograph of my mother's car, its front end crushed against a guardrail.
I pressed my hand over my mouth.
Jasmine put an arm around my shoulders.
"We don't know what this means yet.""
"She was afraid something would happen to her.""
"I know.""
"And Dad knew.""
"We need to find the rest of the records.""
We searched every box.
At the bottom of the trunk, beneath a stack of fabric samples, I found a sealed envelope marked For Nia, if the collection is ever stolen again.
Inside was a flash drive and a handwritten list of file names.
The first was titled *ORIGINAL_DESIGN_ARCHIVE*.
The second read *MARTIN_HALE_CORRESPONDENCE*.
The third was labeled *DAVID_CARTER—PAYMENTS*.
Jasmine stared at the list.
"Your mother kept financial records on your father?""
"I don't know.""
I slipped the flash drive into my pocket.
Then a noise came from the hallway.
Footsteps.
A man's voice called from outside the unit.
"Miss Carter?""
Jasmine moved in front of me.
"Who are you?""
The man appeared in the doorway wearing a dark suit. He held a leather folder and a phone displaying my photograph.
"My name is Paul Bennett. I'm a private investigator.""
He glanced at the open trunk.
"I've been looking for you.""
My heart hammered.
"Why?""
"Because your mother hired me shortly before she died.""
He looked directly at me.
"And because someone has been paying me for five years to keep you away from this storage unit.""
I tightened my grip on the flash drive.
"Who?""
Paul opened his folder.
Inside was a photograph of my father meeting Martin Hale outside a downtown Atlanta office.
The date printed beneath it was the day after my mother's funeral.
Paul lowered his voice.
"Your father wasn't just helping Martin steal her designs, Nia.""
May you like
He looked toward the corridor, as if afraid someone might be listening.
"He helped him bury the evidence.""
