“That can’t be right.”
I had helped sort through most of Dad’s clothes after he passed.
I remembered the suits hanging in his bedroom closet.
Black.
Navy.
Gray.
Nothing remotely like the suit Eric was wearing.
“Which closet?” I asked.
“The one downstairs.”
I stared at him.
“Dad’s study doesn’t have a closet.”
Eric gave me a strange look.
“Apparently, it does.”
He explained that a few days earlier, he had been searching Dad’s study for some old military documents.
While moving books around, he noticed that one section of the built-in bookcase didn’t sit quite flush against the wall.
When he pulled on it, the entire bookcase shifted outward.
Behind it was a narrow hidden door.
My brother arrived at our father’s funeral wearing a bright red suit, and I was immediately upset. Every other man in the chapel wore black, charcoal, or dark gray. Then Eric walked in.
