The rain in New Jersey didn’t fall.

It drifted sideways, cold and gray, sticking to the wool of my Class A uniform.

I stood by the open grave, my boots sinking into the red clay.

The brass casket of Colonel Raymond Mercer descended slowly into the earth.

Only three people attended the service.

My mother, Caroline, had already left in her black sedan before the prayers even ended.

I stayed until the machinery stopped clanking.

The cemetery workers walked back toward their metal shed, leaving one man behind.

He wore a yellow slicker coated in grime.

He held a shovel, but he wasn’t looking at the grave.

He was looking at me.

“Colonel Mercer,” he said, his voice low.

“Yes,” I said.

“Your father was a smart man,” the man said.

He wiped mud from his sleeve.

“He paid me five thousand dollars three weeks ago.”

I frowned, stepping closer. “For what?”

“To tell you that this box is light.”

The gravedigger spat into the wet grass.

“It’s empty, ma’am. There’s nothing but paving stones in there.”

I stared at him, my heart hammering against my ribs.

“What are you talking about?”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a brass key.

A small plastic tag hung from the ring: *Unit 17, Route 9 Self-Storage*.

“He said to give you this,” the man said, pressing the cold metal into my glove.

“And he said to hurry.”

Before I could ask another question, he turned and walked into the gray mist.

I didn’t go back to the base.

I drove south on Route 9, the windshield wipers slapping a steady, frantic rhythm.

The storage facility was a row of low, corrugated steel buildings behind a rusted chain-link fence.

I parked my sedan near the back.

The rain was coming down harder now, drumming on the hood.

I found Unit 17 and inserted the key.

The lock turned with a heavy, metallic click.

I pulled the rolling metal door up.

Inside, the concrete floor was bare except for a wooden folding table in the center.

On the table sat a small, portable video monitor and a black notebook.