The Funeral and the Man in the Sharp Suit
The service was smaller than I had expected. Significantly smaller.
A handful of distant acquaintances near the back. A tired pastor reading from a worn book. I kept thinking about how Ezra had deserved a fuller room — not because he would have wanted the attention, but because the room should have reflected the kind of man he was.
Across the aisle, one man stood out.
Sharp dark suit. Expensive watch. Eyes on his phone throughout the service, thumb moving with the rhythm of someone who has decided the event is an inconvenience.
When the service ended, the man walked straight toward me.
“You must be the grocery guy,” he said, offering a hand that felt more like a transaction than a condolence. “Marcus. Ezra’s nephew.”
“Anthony. I’m sorry for your loss.”
He gave me a thin smile.
“Right. Over a decade of Sunday visits. That’s a significant time investment in an old man.”
I kept my voice level.
“He was my friend.”
Marcus glanced past me toward the casket.
“Well, friend or not, the house is going on the market quickly. I’ve already got someone looking at it. No point in letting it sit empty.”
I did not respond. I could not determine whether what I was feeling was grief or anger, but either way, I knew Ezra would not have wanted a scene at his own funeral.
Marcus leaned slightly closer.
“People attach themselves to elderly folks in isolation for all kinds of reasons. I hope yours were the good kind.”
“I never took a dollar from him,” I said quietly.
“That’s what they all say.”
He walked off with his phone already at his ear, the conversation apparently finished.
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The Lawyer and the Battered Suitcase
I was about to leave when a man stepped in front of me.
He was in his sixties, measured, with the particular unhurried bearing of a person who is accustomed to delivering important information and has learned to do it calmly.
“Are you Anthony? The neighbor who helped Mr. Harrison?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Whitman. I was Ezra’s attorney.”
He brought his other hand forward, and I saw what he was carrying.
An old suitcase. Leather worn pale at the corners, latches dulled by time.
“Mr. Harrison left specific instructions that this be given to you directly. His words were that it had to be private and for you only.”
I took it. It was heavier than I had expected.
“Did he say what’s inside?”
“He said you’d understand when you opened it.”
A presence arrived at my shoulder before I could ask anything else.
Marcus. He had crossed the parking lot quickly, and his earlier practiced boredom had been replaced by something sharper.
