THE GOOD DAUGHTER

The warehouse

The following night, Clara told her mother she was covering an extra shift at the diner.

It wasn’t a complete lie—she just wasn’t getting paid for this one.

By the time she reached the east side, the air smelled faintly of oil and rust. The warehouse loomed ahead, a hulking shadow against the dim glow of the streetlights. Its corrugated walls were streaked with rain, the faded letters of an old shipping company barely visible.

Ethan was already there, leaning against the hood of a black car parked across the street. His leather jacket was zipped to the neck, his hands in his pockets.

“You came,” he said simply.

“You didn’t give me much choice,” Clara replied, though her voice was quieter than she intended.

Ethan’s gaze swept the street before he gestured toward the building. “This place was one of your father’s last stops before he died. If he left something behind, it’s here.”

They crossed the street and slipped through a side entrance, the metal door groaning softly. Inside, the air was damp and stale, carrying the faint scent of mold and old machinery. Rows of dusty crates lined the walls, stacked high like silent sentinels.

Ethan flicked on a small flashlight, the beam slicing through the darkness. “We need to move fast. If someone else is looking for what we’re after, we can’t let them get here first.”

Clara’s footsteps echoed faintly as she followed him down a narrow aisle. “Do you even know what we’re looking for?”

“Not exactly,” he admitted, pausing at a crate marked with a faded red symbol. “But your father wasn’t careless. If it’s here, he would’ve hidden it somewhere no one would think to look.”

They pried open the crate, only to find it filled with old car parts. Clara’s heart sank.

They moved to another, then another—each one a dead end.

Finally, Ethan stopped in front of a rusted metal cabinet shoved into a corner. He knelt, fiddling with the lock until it clicked open. Inside was a small, battered duffel bag.

Clara reached for it, but before her fingers touched the fabric, the sound of footsteps echoed through the warehouse. Not theirs.

Ethan’s head snapped up, his voice low but urgent. “We’re not alone.”