Once I would have said it was his family’s belongings. Maybe he holds his wife’s favorite sweater up to his face the way I have yours, inhaling that lingering scent, fearful that one day it will dissipate into nothingness, and she’ll be gone the way you’re gone. That last trace, vanished.
But I can’t think that anymore. Gabriel’s apartment is still filled with his wife’s things.
I stare at the brick storage unit once again.
I need to know.
Need. Not want.
I don’t even understand why I need to know. Not even the good Dr. Alexander could tell me that. But it’s a craving that comes from deep within my soul. And there’s no stopping me from feeding it this time.
Across the street, a man is walking down the block. He holds two boxes in his hands, one on top of the other. He slows as he approaches the storage center, sets the boxes down in front of the door. My eyes widen. He’s going in… Before I know it, before I have a chance to think things through, I’m jogging across the street, and I reach for the door the man just opened with a key card.
“Let me get that for you,” I say. He turns and I offer a friendly smile. “My unit’s just down the hall.”
If I were a man, the guy probably would’ve thought twice. But I’m no threat to him. At least, that’s what he thinks. Luckily, I don’t look as unhinged as I feel.
“Thanks a lot.” He picks up his boxes and steps inside, walks to the right a few paces, and disappears into a waiting elevator.
All the while, I’m holding my breath, and my heart feels like it’s about to burst at any moment. Once he’s gone, I blow out a shaky breath and tread to the right, the same direction I’ve watched Gabriel go many times before.
I count the units as I walk. Finally I’m making good use of the random notes I jotted down all those months ago. At the time, they were nothing more than scattered thoughts—scribbles from a woman on the verge of a breakdown.
Cigarettes.
Small coffee.
Corn muffin.
Twelve.
The last item being the window count from the storage unit entrance, the window where I watched a light flicker on every time he entered.
I arrive at the unit and stand in front of it. It looks no different from the other garage-type doors surrounding me. It’s painted blue, and a round lock hangs from its latch.
I stare at it a long moment, replaying a conversation we had not too long ago. We were talking about the letter I’d had him write to his wife. “Maybe I’ll be less angry every time I punch in my PIN from now on,” he’d said. “Everything is her birthday—from my ATM code to door codes.” And I couldn’t forget that he’d said her birthday was Valentine’s Day.
I swallow guilt as I reach for the lock and break another rule. Yet again. What’s one more?
When it comes to Gabriel, it seems, the rules don’t apply. Or rather, I don’t mind breaking them. It might almost be worth suffering the consequences, because I just… I just need to know.
I turn the lock until the numbers line up—0214. There’s a satisfying click. And suddenly, the lock is off the latch, heavy in my hand. And everything he’s hidden is now available to me.
* * *
Mostly, it’s boxes. The big, moving-company sort, preprinted checklists on the side so you can take a Sharpie and mark which room the box goes in. None of these is marked, though, like they were packed in a hurry and shoved in here. They’re haphazardly placed, too, and the nearest one looks like the slightest breeze might dislodge it and send it toppling over.
It’s not what I expected.
What in the world would a grown man do in a storage unit full of boxes?
I unwind my scarf. It’s climate controlled. Not warm, but not cool like outside.
Maybe there’s something in the boxes. For a moment, I consider closing the rolling door behind me—it’s a little weird to be sorting through someone else’s things so publicly, especially when, well, I’m breaking the law. What if someone comes in and knows who the unit belongs to? But one glance down the shadowy hall tells me it’ll be a hell of a lot creepier to close the door and be trapped in here.
I run my fingers over the nearest box, then stand on tiptoe to pry open the lid, to see what’s inside. A flash of pink, purple—I release the box and step backward, the contents a jolt. Toys. Little girls’ toys, a jumbled mess within. A Barbie, a stuffed bear, what looks like an undressed American Girl doll, and… I exhale. Seeing his daughter’s toys isn’t what I expected. It makes it all very real. Very terrible.
My hands shake as I take another step back, second-guessing myself. Maybe I don’t want to know. Maybe he comes in here to be around her belongings, belongings he couldn’t bear to see in his house every day.