“He was my friend.”
“Right,” Marcus looked past me toward the casket. “Well, friend or not, the house is going on the market fast. I’ve already got someone interested. No point in letting it sit.”
“You must be the grocery guy.”
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t tell if it was grief or anger making my hands cold, but I knew Ezra wouldn’t have wanted a scene at his own funeral.
His nephew leaned in slightly.
“You know, people get attached to lonely old folks for all kinds of reasons. I hope your reasons were the good kind.”
“I never took a dollar from him,” I said quietly.
“That’s what they all say.”
My late neighbor’s nephew walked off before I could reply, already lifting his phone to his ear as if the conversation had never mattered.
“That’s what they all say.”
I stood and watched the last few mourners drift toward the parking lot. I was about to leave again when another man stepped in front of me, holding something at his side.
“Are you Anthony? The neighbor who used to help Mr. Harrison?”
I nodded.
“I am Mr. Whitman. I was Ezra’s lawyer.”
He brought up his other hand, and I saw what he was carrying. It was an old, battered suitcase, the leather worn pale at the corners and the latches dull with age.
“Are you Anthony?”
“Mr. Harrison specifically instructed me to give this to you,” Mr. Whitman said. “His words were very clear. It had to be private and for you only.”
I took it carefully. It was heavier than I expected.
“Did he say what’s inside?”
“He said you’d understand when you opened it.”
Before I could ask anything else, I felt a presence at my shoulder.
