Sign the Papers Mr. Langford novel Chapter 360

Phoebe squatted down next to her and took a look.

"There are still wheel tracks."

Wren hummed a soft note of agreement.

Manager Morrison finally unlatched the lock.

As the heavy metal door swung open, a screeching groan echoed through the hollow space.

It was pitch black inside.

The staff flicked on their flashlights, sweeping the beams across the room to reveal a tempest of dust swirling in the air, like a phantom fog that had just been disturbed.

The unit was smaller than Wren had anticipated.

Concrete floors, corrugated iron ceilings, and damp mildew creeping up the corners. It was practically empty, save for two shredded cardboard boxes, a snapped wooden plank, and a single rusted shelving unit shoved against the wall.

Phoebe stood at the entrance, her expression turning glacial.

"You call this old furniture?"

Wren remained silent.

She walked in, her footsteps excruciatingly slow.

There were glaringly obvious marks on the floor.

Along the left wall lay a massive rectangular dust outline. The borders were razor-sharp, precisely the size of an antique desk. Beside it were several narrower squares, identical to the indentations left by heavy cabinet legs settling over years.

The items had been right here.

And they had been here for a very long time.

Wren stood before that vacant rectangular outline, the image of her mother's desk flashing before her eyes.

It was made of dark wood, with a shallow scratch marring the right drawer. Vivian Vance would sit there deep into the night, bathed in the glow of a single desk lamp, buried under stacks of data reports, medical records, and dense English literature that Wren couldn't begin to comprehend.

As a child, she would peek around the doorframe and ask, "Mom, what are you writing?"

Vivian would look back at her, eyes heavy with exhaustion yet shining with an impossibly tender light.

"I'm writing something that cannot afford a single mistake."

Then, that desk vanished.

Everyone in the family had assured her that the old things had been thrown out.

But it had been here all along, sitting in silence for so many years, only to be hauled away right as she was inches from finding it.

Phoebe walked over, her voice softening.

"Wren."

Wren snapped back to reality, pulling up her phone camera and starting to shoot.

One photo, a second, a third.

She photographed the dust outlines, the drag marks, the shiny new lock, and the frayed scraps of rope discarded in the corner. Her hands were remarkably steady—so steady that it broke Phoebe's heart to watch.

Mr. Lawson demanded the staff produce the pre-entry inventory log.

"We'll fetch it right now."

"Mr. Lawson," Manager Morrison's tone grew desperate, "there are procedures and applications we have to follow..."

Wren cut him off. "Manager Morrison, I highly doubt you let us in today just to stall with procedures."

She turned to face him.

Her voice wasn't loud; in fact, it was frighteningly calm.

"The items that belong here are gone. The lock is new, the floor shows signs of recent moving, and you can't provide a straight answer about the security footage or the patrol logs. I will cooperate with whatever procedures come next, but I highly recommend you cooperate right now."

Manager Morrison withered under her gaze, entirely speechless.

Mr. Lawson snapped his binder shut.

"We secure the original first, then demand the security footage."

At the mention of security footage, Manager Morrison's face paled even further.

Phoebe narrowed her eyes sharply.

"Let me guess, the cameras broke too?"

Manager Morrison struggled to speak. "There are no cameras inside the units. And the hallway footage is only stored for seven days."

Mr. Lawson pressed, "We submitted a formal written request to preserve the footage after our last visit."

"By the time the request reached management, portions of the video had already been overwritten."