The notification popped up on his phone while he was in the shower. It was a simple alert from his bank about an auto-payment. Usually, I wouldn’t dream of looking, but it was just sitting there on the nightstand screen, glowing in the dark.

It said $189 to a storage facility over on Route 4. I stared at the screen for a minute because I had no idea what he would be storing.

We have lived in the same house for twenty-two years. We have a garage full of his old woodworking stuff and a basement that is half-full of boxes we never unpacked from the move in 2002. Why would he need a climate-controlled unit on the other side of town? I felt a weird knot tighten in my stomach. It was just a weird, nagging feeling.

When he walked out of the bathroom with a towel around his waist, I just asked him straight out. I didn’t want to play games. I pointed at the phone and asked about the charge. He didn’t even blink. He told me it was just some old hunting gear and his grandfather’s tools that he didn’t have room for here. He said it wasn’t worth the drive to go see it.

He went to the kitchen to make coffee like nothing happened. I stood in the bedroom and listened to the drip-drip-drip of the coffee maker. It sounded way louder than usual. I wanted to believe him. I really did. But something about how quickly he answered felt wrong. People who are telling the truth usually act a little more confused when you catch them off guard.

I waited until Wednesday when he went to the lodge for his weekly woodshop group. I knew he wouldn’t be back for three hours.

I went through his desk drawer. It didn’t take long to find the spare key. It was taped to the underside of the wood with a strip of masking tape. It was so simple and so stupid. My hands were shaking so bad I almost dropped it.

The drive to Route 4 felt like it took forever. I kept checking the rearview mirror like I was some kind of criminal. The facility was one of those big, soulless places with a chain-link fence and a gate that hissed when it opened. I found Unit 37 tucked away in the back corner. It was quiet. It was too quiet.

I put the key in the lock and turned it. It didn’t stick at all. It swung open like he had been there just that morning. I stepped inside and the air hit me first. It was clean and smelled like expensive laundry detergent. It didn’t smell like old tools or mothballs or damp cardboard.

It wasn’t a storage unit. It was a room.