"Bring everything," she said. "And don't confront anyone else until we know what we're dealing with. If your documents mean what you believe they mean, this is bigger than a family property dispute. It concerns people who never agreed to have their homes treated as disposable inventory."
After the call, Altha opened a drawer and took out a list of names she had written over the preceding months. They were former employees, accountants, church members, and residents who had lived through the hotel's changes. Some had died, others had moved, and a few had spent decades believing that she had abandoned them. She examined each name, wondering who might still be willing to speak.
Elias offered to handle the calls. Altha shook her head and picked up the phone herself. "They knew my voice before any of this happened," she said. "They deserve to hear it from me now." The first woman she dialed answered after five rings, and when Altha identified herself, the line fell quiet except for a fragile intake of breath.
"Miss Monroe?" the woman whispered. "I thought I'd never hear from you again." Altha closed her eyes.
"I've been gone too long, Ruth Anne. But I need to ask you something important. Do you remember the night they told us the hotel no longer belonged to the people who built it?"
Riverside Storage lay in a low industrial district where the streets were lined with repair shops, shuttered warehouses, and chain-link fences patched with wire.
Altha had rented Unit 47B for twenty-three years, long enough for three managers to retire and for the painted numbers above the doors to fade into pale outlines. She had never liked the place, but she trusted its thick concrete walls, its independent alarm system, and the fact that almost nobody in Atlanta associated her name with that address. She paid the rental bill each month as faithfully as she paid her electricity.
Elias drove her there the following morning before their appointment with Celeste. The truck was a little too tall for her to climb into comfortably, so he waited with one hand on the door until she was seated. In the cup holder he had placed the tea she liked, with very little sugar and a slice of lemon. She noticed, smiled, and reminded him that she had raised a daughter capable of opening a boarding house before she had a dependable car of her own.
"I know, Grandmama," he replied. "I'm just trying to make sure you get there with your knees intact." She made a quiet sound of amusement and looked out the window. It pleased her more than she said that he could be protective without making her feel helpless.
The storage lot was nearly empty when they arrived. Elias parked near the entrance, walked the short row with her, and paused as she opened a canvas pouch containing three keys. She selected the oldest, a brass key with softened teeth, and turned it in the padlock on Unit 47B. The metal door rattled upward, exposing shelves crowded with boxes, long archival tubes, and a small wooden trunk.