That was my room.
In my house.
Behind the cot, against the far wall, was a stack of old plastic storage bins. Christmas decorations. My grandfather’s fishing gear. Tax records from 1998.
I moved the bins one at a time and set them to the side.
Behind them, one section of the floor looked a little different from everything around it. You’d never notice unless you knew. It was a square of gray composite panel set flush with the concrete, same color, same texture, just a hair lighter at the seams.
My grandfather put it in when I was sixteen.
I remember the day. He took me down here and showed me how it worked. He pulled up the panel, and underneath it was a steel safe bolted into the foundation.
“Everybody should have one place nobody knows about,” he said. “Your mother doesn’t know about this. Your father doesn’t know about this. Just you and me.”
“Why me?”
He looked at me for a long time. My grandfather had light blue eyes that always looked a little sad, even when he was laughing.
“Because you’re the one who’ll need it,” he said.
I didn’t understand what he meant back then.
I knelt down and pulled up the panel.
The safe was still there.
No scratches on it. No pry marks around the edges. The dust on top was untouched. I brushed it off with my palm.
That told me something right away.
They hadn’t found it.
They’d gone through every inch of my life. They’d been in my closet, my desk, my dresser drawers, my box from overseas. But they hadn’t found this.
I entered the combination. My grandfather’s birthday, backward.
The door swung open.
Inside, there was a waterproof sleeve. Inside that was a thick manila folder, the edges soft with age.
