The address on the paper belonged to our family cabin in Pine Ridge.

For several long seconds, my mind struggled to take in what I was looking at.

We had sold the property two years ago, after my daughters and I agreed that keeping it did nothing but preserve a deep, painful wound.

I hadn’t set foot on the property since the day we signed the closing papers.

The buyer, an elderly retired schoolteacher named Leonard Ross, had assured us he planned to renovate the little cabin into a peaceful weekend retreat.

“If Hannah ever discovers this storage unit, inform her that the man depicted in the photo is not Brandon.”