Chapter 1 - The Man in Red at My Father’s Funeral
My brother showed up to our father's funeral wearing a bright red suit.
And for the first twenty minutes, I genuinely considered asking him to leave.
Not burgundy. Not dark wine. Not one of those expensive designer shades that could almost pass for black under the right lighting.
Bright, unapologetic, fire-engine red.
The kind of red you wore to a Christmas party when you desperately wanted someone to notice you.
Except this wasn't a Christmas party.
It was our father's funeral.
And Arthur Bennett had spent seventy-one years of his life being the kind of man who considered a navy-blue tie an adventurous fashion decision.
I was standing near the chapel entrance when Eric stepped out of his car.
Around us, mourners moved quietly beneath the gray October sky. Black umbrellas dotted the stone pathway. A cool breeze carried the smell of damp leaves and freshly cut grass.
Through the chapel's open doors, I could see Dad's polished mahogany casket resting beneath an arrangement of white lilies.
Then Eric came walking toward me.
In that ridiculous suit.
I stared at him.
He looked terrible.
His dark hair was uncombed, the skin beneath his eyes was bruised with exhaustion, and his normally clean-shaven face was covered in several days of stubble.
But somehow, he'd managed to find the energy to dress like a walking emergency exit sign.
"Eric."
He stopped.
"Sarah."
I caught his elbow and pulled him away from two elderly women who were already whispering behind their funeral programs.
"What the hell are you wearing?"
He looked down at himself as though he'd forgotten.
"Not now."
"Are you serious?"
"Sarah, please."
"Everyone is staring at you."
"Let them."
I lowered my voice.
"Dad would have hated this."
Something changed in his expression.
It wasn't anger.
It was sadness so profound that, for a moment, I nearly apologized.
"No," he said quietly. "He wouldn't."
Before I could demand an explanation, the chapel bells rang.
Eric gently removed my hand from his arm and walked inside.
I followed him, burning with a mixture of grief and irritation.
Our father had been dead for six days.
Six days since the hospital called at 3:17 in the morning.
Six days since I'd driven through deserted streets, praying that the doctor had made a mistake.
Six days since I'd entered his room and discovered that the strongest man I'd ever known was suddenly just a motionless figure beneath a white hospital sheet.
Dad had built Bennett Logistics from a modest regional transportation company into a multimillion-dollar operation employing more than six hundred people.
He had survived recessions, labor shortages, cancer treatments, and business disagreements that would have destroyed lesser men.
But in the end, his body had simply stopped cooperating.
Eric and I had handled his illness differently.
I organized appointments, spoke with specialists, reviewed insurance paperwork, and eventually began preparing for the inevitable.
Eric disappeared into Dad's study for hours at a time.
Sometimes he slept there.
Sometimes he emerged smelling of old books and coffee.
When I asked what he was doing, he always gave the same answer.
"Looking for something Dad wanted."
I'd assumed grief had made him obsessive.
Now, watching him sit in the front pew wearing a red suit, I wondered if he'd completely lost his mind.
The funeral began with a hymn.
Then our father's longtime business partner, Julian Sterling, approached the lectern.
Julian was sixty-eight, impeccably groomed, and wealthy enough to make expensive clothing look almost ordinary.
His silver hair was combed perfectly backward.
His Italian black overcoat probably cost more than my monthly mortgage.
He rested both hands on the lectern and surveyed the congregation.
"Arthur Bennett wasn't simply my business partner," he began.
His voice trembled convincingly.
"He was my brother."
I lowered my eyes.
Beside me, Eric made a strange sound.
Almost a laugh.
I nudged his knee.
He stared straight ahead.
Julian continued.
"For thirty-five years, Arthur and I worked side by side. Together, we transformed a small family enterprise into something extraordinary."
He paused to dab the corner of one eye with a folded handkerchief.
"I promise his children that his legacy will remain safe in my hands."
The congregation murmured appreciatively.
I felt a flicker of gratitude.
At least somebody understood what our father had accomplished.
But when I turned toward Eric, his fists were clenched so tightly that his knuckles had turned white.
After the service, the mourners traveled to the cemetery.
Rain threatened but never quite arrived.
Dad was lowered into the ground beneath a stand of old cypress trees, not far from our mother's grave.
I dropped a white rose onto his casket.
Eric remained completely still.
Then, just as the minister finished his final prayer, a familiar voice spoke behind us.
"Sarah? Eric?"
I turned.
Mr. Thomas Lawson, our family's attorney for nearly thirty years, was approaching with a black leather briefcase.
He had attended the service but hadn't spoken to us.
His eyes looked swollen.
"Your father would have been proud of you both," he said.
"Thank you, Mr. Lawson."
Then he looked at Eric.
And stopped.
His gaze dropped to the bright red jacket.
For several seconds, he didn't move.
"Eric," he said slowly. "Where did you find that suit?"
My brother frowned.
"Why?"
"Please. Where?"
"In Dad's closet."
Lawson's fingers tightened around his briefcase handle.
"Which closet?"
"The downstairs one."
I turned toward Eric.
"What downstairs closet?"
"The one in his study."
"Eric, Dad's study doesn't have a closet."
"It does now."
Lawson took a sharp breath.
"Behind the bookshelves?"
Eric nodded.
The attorney's face lost its color.
He glanced toward the distant mourners, then toward Julian Sterling, who was speaking quietly with his son Richard beside a black limousine.
"Did you look inside the jacket?" Lawson asked.
Eric glanced down.
"What?"
"The pockets. The lining. Did you examine any of it?"
"No. Why would I?"
Lawson stepped closer.
"Take it off."
"Excuse me?"
"Your jacket, Eric. Take it off. Now."
There was something in his voice that immediately silenced both of us.
Eric reluctantly slipped out of the crimson jacket.
Lawson took it with trembling hands and examined the pockets.
Nothing.
He checked the sleeves.
Nothing.
Then he pressed his fingers against the fabric near the inside chest.
A faint crackling sound came from beneath the lining.
Lawson closed his eyes.
"Oh, Arthur."
"What is it?" I whispered.
The attorney turned the jacket inside out.
Near the left breast was a row of uneven black stitches.
They looked completely out of place against the immaculate red silk.
"Your father," Lawson said, "came to my office eight months ago with a very unusual request."
He opened his briefcase.
From a narrow compartment, he removed a tiny pair of silver scissors.
"He told me that if I ever saw Eric wearing a scarlet jacket, I was to open the lining immediately."
Eric stared at him.
"Why?"
Lawson positioned the scissors beneath the first stitch.
"Because your father said that when this suit appeared, it would mean Julian Sterling had finally made his move."
I looked over my shoulder.
Across the cemetery, Julian was watching us.
May you like
And when he saw the scissors in Lawson's hand, his expression changed.
For the first time that afternoon, Julian Sterling wasn't smiling.
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