41. Chapter Forty-One Neon Secrets
Chapter Forty-One: Neon Secrets
Tess
Gravel crunched under the tires as we drove through the entrance to the storage facility. I glanced at the address and unit number scribbled hastily on the slightly crumpled scrap of paper in my hand.
“Storage unit 385, that way.” I tried to keep my voice steady, but with my gut swirling with anticipation almost to nausea, it was hard to hide the apprehension.
He maneuvered into a parking spot, and we stepped out, the cool evening air brushing against my skin a welcome relief from the tension building inside me.
We walked down the broad pathway, flanked on either side by rows of identical roll-up orange doors. The harsh fluorescent lights overhead sputtered occasionally, and the uniformity of each door added to the surreal moment .
When we reached unit 385, I paused. The door seemed no different from the others, but the magnitude of its secrets pressed heavily on my shoulders. I took a deep breath, the cool air filling my lungs, but with the metallic scent of the storage units and the faint aroma of dust and age, my racing heart refused to calm.
“Here goes nothing,” I whispered, turning the dial. Stopping at each of the numbers in the combination I had retrieved from Ivan’s files, my stomach threatened to purge everything that wasn’t inside anyway. The dial felt cold and heavy, a tangible connection to the enigma we were about to unravel. With a quick glance at my companion, I pulled. The mechanism opened with a satisfying click, reverberating through the silent corridor.
“Let’s see what Ivan was hiding.” Maverick’s voice was a steady anchor in the midst of my swirling thoughts.
My fingers curled around the handle of the door, the metal cool to the touch. With a steadying breath, I lifted. The door rolled up with a creaky, protesting groan, the sound amplified in the enclosed space. As the door rose, the faint glow from the corridor spilled into the darkened unit, revealing the first hints of what lay inside. The outlines were indistinct at first, but as more light filtered in, the details became clear.
My eyes widened in disbelief.
“Holy shit,” I whispered.
Dust motes floated lazily in the air, illuminated by the beams of light cutting through the darkness. The interior of the unit was shrouded in shadows, the shapes and forms of various objects slowly becoming discernible.
We stepped inside, the bare concrete floor beneath our feet. The stagnant silence was broken only by the soft rustling of our movements and the distant hum of the facility’s lighting. I felt the goosebumps spread over my limbs, the air in the unit heavy with the burdens of the past.
I stared at the jumbled collection, trying to make sense of it all. Why did Ivan have this stuff? My mind raced with questions, each item more baffling than the last.
In one corner, a faded, striped canvas tent was rolled up and propped against the wall, its colors muted with age. The familiar red and white stripes were interspersed with patches and tears, telling a story of countless performances and travels. Next to it, an old, weathered wooden trunk sat with its lid slightly ajar, revealing a tangled mess of colorful costumes and sequined leotards. The vibrant fabrics caught the light, shimmering with a ghostly brilliance.
Scattered across the floor were various pieces of equipment: a set of juggling clubs, their paint chipped and worn; a unicycle with a cracked leather seat and slightly bent wheel; a pair of oversized clown shoes, the leather scuffed and the laces frayed. The shoes lay abandoned, as if the performer had stepped out of them and never returned.
A large, wooden trapeze bar, worn smooth from use, lay on the middle shelf of a metal unit against the wall, its ropes coiled neatly beside it. Nearby, a pair of acrobat rings dangled from a hook, their surfaces polished to a sheen from years of gripping hands and daring feats.
In the back, a vintage popcorn machine stood proudly, its glass case fogged with age. The remnants of unpopped kernels lay at the bottom, and I didn’t want to think about how old they were. The machine’s bright red paint was chipped, and the once-golden lettering had faded, but it still exuded a sense of nostalgic charm.
A battered trunk labeled “props” sat against the far wall. I lifted the lid cautiously, the hinges creaking in protest. Inside was a collection of strange and eclectic items: a rubber chicken, a magician’s top hat, a deck of oversized playing cards, and a collection of colorful scarves tied together in an endless chain.
The air in the unit was dusty, and aged fabric mingled with the faint odors of grease paint and popcorn. Each item seemed to have a past filled with laughter, thrills and gasps of amazement.
I turned to Maverick, my mind reeling. “Why did he have this stuff?”
He shook his head, stoic and thoughtful. “No idea. Maybe he had plans.”
We stepped further into the unit, the floor creaking underfoot. The surreal collection of circus memorabilia surrounded us, each piece a puzzle in the larger mystery of Ivan’s life.
“Was this stuff from his past or for his future?” I whispered as I thumbed through another box of props.
Maverick allowed me all the time I needed to search everything, and when I was satisfied there were no clues as to why Ivan stored this stuff, he helped me pull the door back down, lock it up and get back to the car.
We drove back to his parking lot in silence. I was lost in my head, wondering if Ivan grew up in the circus. Why wouldn’t he have told me? Was he planning to use the equipment? Had he stolen it?
Maverick placed his hand over mine on my lap. “We’re here. You hungry?”
I blinked up at him, taking a moment to return to the present. I’d forgotten how hungry I was, but now that he mentioned it, my stomach roared back to life like a fierce creature threatening to chomp its way out. “Starving.”