How wrong he had been about everything.
I spent that first night on a leather sofa I discovered in a small adjoining office within the garage complex. It wasn’t until morning that I fully appreciated the extent of Robert’s preparations.
The office contained a compact bathroom with a shower, a mini refrigerator stocked with water and basic provisions, and even a small closet with several changes of clothes in my size, tags still attached. My practical husband had anticipated I might need temporary shelter here.
Daylight revealed more details I’d missed in my emotional state the night before. The garage wasn’t some neglected industrial space, but a meticulously renovated facility with state-of-the-art security, climate control systems, and custom lighting designed to showcase the vehicles. What looked dilapidated from outside was intentional camouflage concealing the treasures within.
After a simple breakfast of granola bars and bottled water, I called the number for Marcus Weatherbe that Robert had included in his letter. Despite the early hour, he answered on the second ring.
“Mrs. Campbell,” he said, his British accent unmistakable. “I’ve been expecting your call. First, please accept my condolences for your loss. Robert was not just a client, but a friend.”
“Thank you, Mr. Weatherbe,” I replied, my voice still rough from crying. “I’m a bit overwhelmed. I only discovered the garage and its contents last night.”
