"He knew."
Mr. Collins chuckled softly.
"I thought so. They also asked whether the estate could be reopened."
"And?"
"He anticipated that."
I frowned.
"Qu'est-ce que tu veux dire ?"
"Frank a ajouté une instruction manuscrite au fichier."
I leaned back in my chair.
"What did it say?"
Mr. Collins cleared his throat.
"If my sons suddenly become interested in Garage B12 after learning what's inside, tell them they already received the inheritance they were looking for."
I closed my eyes.
Even now, Dad was still one step ahead.
Then Mr. Collins said, "There was one more thing."
"What?"
"I assumed you already knew."
"Savoir quoi ?"
"Your father didn't rent Garage B12."
I frowned.
"What are you talking about?"
"He owned it."
I actually laughed.
"No, he rented that garage for decades."
"That's what everyone believed."
I stared at the wall, trying to process what I'd just heard.
"The entire row of garages sits on privately owned land," Mr. Collins continued. "Your father purchased the unit nearly 30 years ago. The land beneath every garage in the complex is included in each deed. He simply told everyone he rented it."
"Why would he do that?"
"I imagine he didn't want anyone asking questions."
He paused.
"Ownership transferred to you the moment he passed away."
I looked around the garage.
Le Mustang.
Le banc de travail.
La porte rouge.
Tout ce que papa avait passé des décennies à protéger.
