“What’s that?”
Marcus had crossed the lot fast, his earlier boredom replaced by something sharper.
“His words were very clear.”
“Whatever it is belongs to the estate,” Marcus insisted.
Mr. Whitman didn’t flinch.
“It actually doesn’t, Marcus. Your uncle’s instructions were specific and notarized. This item was set aside from the estate years ago.”
“Years ago?” Marcus’s voice rose. “He was being manipulated! That suitcase stays!”
“It doesn’t,” the lawyer said, calm as stone. “And if you have concerns, you’re welcome to file them in writing.”
Ezra’s nephew turned to me, and I saw something ugly settle behind his eyes.
“It actually doesn’t, Marcus.”
“Whatever’s in there, I’ll find out. Don’t get comfortable!”
I held the suitcase tighter and walked past him without a word.
In the car, I set it on the passenger seat and sat for a long moment, both hands on the wheel. My chest ached in a way I didn’t know how to name.
I started the engine. Whatever Ezra had left me, I owed it to him to find out.
I carried it home, confused and heavy-hearted.
I held the suitcase tighter.
***
I set the suitcase on the kitchen table and just stared at it for a long minute.
Claire, who couldn’t attend the funeral because of work, stood in the doorway, arms crossed, watching me quietly.
“Open it,” she said.
The latches clicked.
Inside, there was no money or gold, just a thick stack of envelopes, two photo albums, and a worn leather journal.
I picked up the top letter. It was in Ezra’s handwriting and dated 12 years ago, the Sunday we first had coffee.
Read also
There was one for every Sunday after that. Hundreds of them. But he’d never sent them.
