Near the far corner of the property, I found a narrow service gate that hadn’t been latched properly.

It swung open easily with a quiet metallic squeak.

“Hannah,” Paige called softly, following behind me.

“I’m not breaking and entering,” I insisted.

“The gate was already wide open.”

“That’s literally the classic line people use right before they get arrested for trespassing,” she teased nervously.

We slipped quietly through the opening and stepped onto the wet gravel driveway.

The storage units were laid out in several long, parallel rows, with painted wooden signs pointing visitors toward different sections.