My Wealthy Grandmother Left Me a Single Brass Key and No Inheritance
A high chain-link fence topped with barbed wire surrounded six long rows of low, green metal buildings.
I parked the sedan near the office, a small concrete block structure with a faded blue sign that said Office.
The engine died with a wet sputter, leaving only the sound of the wind rattling the metal sign above the door.
I took a deep breath, checked my pocket to ensure the brass key was still there, and stepped out into the cold air.
Inside the office, a heater hummed loudly in the corner, smelling of hot dust and old oil. An elderly man with a gray mustache sat behind a laminate counter, filing yellow receipts into a cardboard box.
“Can I help you?” he asked without looking up.
“I am looking for unit forty-two,” I said, my voice steady.
He stopped his filing and looked at me, his eyes lingering on my faded winter coat. “That one is under a private contract. What is the name?”
“Margaret Vance,” I said.
