Chapter 5 - Unit 114
The rain had turned into a thick, miserable sleet by the time we reached Gary, Indiana.
The storage facility sat on the edge of an abandoned industrial park, surrounded by rusted chain-link fencing topped with razor wire. The gray concrete buildings looked like long, windowless barracks rotting under the bruised winter sky.
I sat in the back of Detective Miller’s unmarked cruiser, wrapped in my winter coat, watching three police vans park near the entrance of the property. Gabi sat beside me, holding a warm travel mug of coffee she hadn't touched since we left Chicago.
"You don't have to be here, Cam," Gabi said softly, reaching over to squeeze my gloved hand. "You could have stayed with your mother."
"I need to see it," I replied, staring through the rain-streaked window. "If I don't see it with my own eyes, part of my brain will always wonder if he was telling the truth about the industrial runoff. I need the truth, Gabi. Even if it kills me."
Detective Miller turned around from the front passenger seat, holding a ring of master keys provided by the facility manager. "The local sheriff's department just cleared the perimeter. The unit is registered under 'Brian Carver,' but the manager recognized Brandon’s photo immediately. He’s been coming here once a month for eight years. Always late at night. Always driving a rental van."
We stepped out of the car, the cold wind cutting through our coats like knives.
The sound of our boots crunching against the wet gravel was the only noise in the vast, desolate complex. We followed Miller and two forensic technicians down a long, narrow aisle between rows of green corrugated metal doors until we stopped in front of a door marked with white painted numbers: 114.
Miller stepped forward, inserted the brass key into the heavy padlock, and turned it.
The heavy lock clicked open with a dull, heavy metallic snap.
Miller grabbed the handle at the bottom of the door and pulled it upward. The metal door rattled loudly as it slid up into the ceiling frame, revealing the dark, cavernous interior of the unit.
The smell hit us instantly.
It wasn't the smell of rot or decay—it was the smell of our apartment. The overpowering, chemical stench of industrial bleach, pine disinfectant, and lye, thick enough to make my eyes water and my throat burn.
A technician stepped forward, switching on a high-powered halide work light.
The beam of intense white light cut through the darkness, illuminating the space inside.
The storage unit was organized with terrifying precision. Heavy metal shelving units lined the concrete walls, loaded with neatly labeled plastic storage bins, stacks of heavy-duty contractor bags, and row upon row of chemical drums—bleach, sodium hydroxide, industrial degreasers, and concrete sealant.
In the center of the room sat a large, stainless steel prep table—the kind used in commercial kitchens or morgues. Above it hung a metal rack containing an assortment of tools: saws, bone chisels, heavy rubber aprons, and professional-grade pressure washers.
And along the back wall, neatly arranged on a set of wooden shelves like trophies in a display case, were dozens of clear plastic storage boxes.
Gabi gasped, taking a step back, her hand flying to her mouth.
Miller didn't say a word. He stepped into the unit, his flashlight beam illuminating the contents of the clear boxes.
Inside the first box was a small, pink leather purse, a floral umbrella, and a silver charm bracelet. Inside the second was a blue college sweatshirt from Northwestern University—the same sweatshirt Sarah Lin had been wearing in the photograph on my mother's dining table.
Inside the third box was a silver nose ring, a pair of black high-heeled shoes, and a leather-bound journal bearing the initials R.V.—Rebecca Vance.
There were eight boxes in total.
Eight boxes. Eight lives. Eight stories neatly packaged, labeled, and preserved beneath a thick layer of dust and chemical stench.
I stood in the doorway of Unit 114, the icy sleet falling on my hair, staring at the physical evidence of a monster's secret life.
Five years. For five years, I had shared a bed with him. I had kissed his lips. I had let him hold our newborn daughter in his arms. I had listened to him preach about honesty, integrity, and family values while he spent his late nights driving to this concrete box in Indiana to arrange the belongings of the women he had slaughtered.
"Camila," Miller said, his voice unusually soft as he stepped out of the unit, placing a hand on my shoulder. "We need to get you back to the car."
I didn't move. My eyes were fixed on the eighth box on the bottom shelf.
Unlike the others, which contained items from years past, the eighth box looked newer. The plastic was clear, unclouded by dust. Inside lay a simple silk scarf, a pair of tortoiseshell reading glasses, and a small, gold-plated pen with a floral design.
My knees gave out.
Gabi caught me before I hit the wet concrete, pulling me into her arms as a ragged, soundless sob tore from my chest.
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The scarf belonged to my cousin, Elena, who had gone missing four years ago during a weekend visit to Chicago. We had spent years searching for her, putting up flyers, holding candlelight vigils, while Brandon sat beside me on the couch, holding my hand, telling me to never lose hope that she would come home.
He hadn't just built a tomb beneath our home. He had hunted within my own family.
