chapter 9: The Storage Unit

Safe Storage Solutions looked exactly like every storage facility ever built. Concrete block building. Fluorescent lights. Smell of dust and old cardboard.

I'd driven across the city in a daze. Flynn's texts kept pinging my phone.

Dinner with the Sterlings tonight. Where was I?

I'd stopped answering after the third message.

Gloria was dead, possibly murdered. I was potentially a kidnapped heiress. Flynn had been drugging me for two years.

The Sterlings and their dinner party could go to hell.

I had a storage unit to open and a past to uncover.

The facility manager barely looked at me. I showed him the death certificate.

"Unit 447. Been hers for..." He checked his computer. "Twenty-two years. Paid up through next year."

Twenty-two years. When I came to Gloria.

"Never seen her come here much. Maybe once a year to add something."

He left me alone in the hallway. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead.

The unit was small. Five by ten.

The roll-up door opened with Gloria's key. I pulled the chain for the light.

Five cardboard boxes sat neatly stacked. All labeled in Gloria's handwriting.

"Aria."

Twenty-two years she'd kept this. Waiting for the right time to share.

Time that never came.

My hands shook as I opened the first box.

Baby clothes. Expensive. Designer brands I recognized even on infant sizes.

Monogrammed. "AA."

Not "AW" for Aria Winters.

A cashmere blanket, hand-embroidered with flowers. A silver baby rattle, tarnished with age.

Engraved: "Alessandra."

A birth announcement card.

*Alessandra Grace Ashford. Born March 15th. Seven pounds, three ounces.*

A photo of a newborn attached.

The second box was medical records.

My hands were steadier now. Going numb.

Original birth certificate.

Name: Alessandra Grace Ashford.

Mother: Catherine Ashford.

Father: Robert Ashford.

Born: New York Presbyterian.

The date matched my birthday. The one I'd always known.

Baby footprints. Vaccination records. All for Alessandra Ashford.

Photos attached to some of the records. A woman holding an infant.

Auburn hair. Hazel eyes. Features that looked exactly like mine.

My mother.

I'd had a mother.

Catherine Ashford.

The third box was full of photos. Hundreds of them.

Alessandra from birth to age five. With Catherine. With nannies. In a mansion. Playing in gardens.

Birthday parties. Holidays. Christmas mornings.

The life of a privileged child.

The last photo stopped me cold.

Alessandra at age five. Wearing a white dress. Smiling at the camera.

The collarbone scar visible above the neckline.

The same scar I'd touched unconsciously my entire life.

Undeniable proof.

I was Alessandra Ashford.

I sat on the concrete floor. Photos spread around me like evidence at a crime scene.

My entire identity was a lie.

Not Aria Winters, foster kid, nobody.

Alessandra Ashford. Kidnapped heiress.

I'd had a family. A mother. A life.

All stolen.

The grief was overwhelming. For a mother I didn't remember. For a childhood that was taken. For myself.

The fourth box was newspaper clippings.

Article after article.

*Ashford Heiress Kidnapped.*

*Five-Year-Old Vanishes From Home.*

*Massive Search for Missing Child.*

*Reward Offered for Alessandra Ashford.*

Then, six months later: *Mother Dies of Grief.*

Catherine Ashford, dead at thirty-two.

My mother died looking for me.

The articles continued. The search eventually called off. Case went cold. Child never found. Presumed dead after years.

Trust fund held in perpetuity.

Family devastated.

Father Victor Ashford refused comment.

Victor Ashford. Sienna's father.

I was Sienna's cousin.

Police reports came next. Copies, not originals.

Alessandra taken from her bedroom at night. The nanny's throat slit. Murder. Witness eliminated.

Security footage erased. Professional job.

No ransom demand ever made.

Never solved.

Inside job suspected. Someone with access to the house. Someone who knew the layout. Someone the family trusted.

Victor Ashford had been investigated. Cleared.

Other family members investigated. Business rivals. The case file was thousands of pages.

Gloria had copies of the key documents.

The fifth box held a letter.

Addressed to me. Sealed.

"Open when you're ready to know."

I opened it with shaking hands.

Gloria's handwriting filled the pages.

*My darling Aria,*

*If you're reading this, I'm gone. I'm sorry I couldn't tell you this while I lived. I was afraid. Of them, of what they'd do if they knew I knew.*

*Twenty-two years ago, a man brought you to me. You were unconscious. Drugged. He said you were an orphan who needed placement. I was a new foster parent, looking to help. He paid me ten thousand dollars cash to take you, no questions. I should have questioned. But I needed the money, and you needed help.*

*You woke up three days later with no memory. Screaming. Terrified. Calling for your mother. Trauma, the doctor said. The mind protecting itself from whatever happened to you. We tried everything. Therapy. Hypnosis. Nothing worked. Eventually, you stopped asking about before. Became Aria Winters. Started a new life.*

*I didn't know who you really were until five years later. I saw old news coverage about the missing Ashford heiress. Saw your face. Realized what I'd been part of. Kidnapping. Probably murder.*

*I wanted to come forward. But the man who brought you came back. Said if I ever told anyone, you'd disappear for real this time. I'd never see you again. He'd know if I talked.*

*So I stayed quiet. Kept you safe the only way I could. Raised you. Loved you. Collected evidence in case someday you needed it.*

*That man's name: Victor Ashford. Your uncle. Sienna's father.*

*He's the one who took you.*

I read the letter three times.

Victor Ashford kidnapped me. Sienna's father.

Too many connections. Flynn targeted Sienna, an Ashford. Then targeted me.

The newspaper clipping in Flynn's office. He knew. Or suspected.

He'd married Sienna for the Ashford connection. Then found me. Thinking I might be the missing heiress.

When did he confirm it? What was his plan?

Access to my trust fund? Leverage over Victor?

My phone rang. Flynn.

I didn't answer.

The texts started coming faster.

*Where are you?*

*The Sterlings are asking for you.*

*This is embarrassing.*

*Answer your phone NOW.*

*You're being incredibly selfish.*

His true nature showing when I didn't obey.

I almost laughed. Borderline hysterical.

He thought I was being selfish.

I'd just learned I was kidnapped. My mother died grieving for me. I was raised by a woman paid to keep quiet.

And he was worried about a dinner party.

The phone rang again.

This time I answered.

"I'm done."

"Done with what?" Irritation sharp in his voice.

"Done with everything. I'm coming home to pack. And then I'm leaving."

"What are you talking about? You can't just—"

I hung up.

For the first time in three years, I'd hung up on Flynn Lancaster.

And it felt like breathing.