Chapter 1: The Man in the Red Suit
My brother wore a bright red suit to our father's funeral.
Not burgundy. Not dark red. Not a tasteful shade of wine.
Bright, unmistakable, almost aggressive red.
Every other man in the chapel wore black or gray. My father's friends, former colleagues, neighbors, and business partners had all dressed appropriately. Even the flowers were white.
And then there was Eric.
He walked through the chapel doors twenty minutes before the service, wearing that ridiculous red suit as if he were arriving at a Hollywood premiere.
I felt my jaw tighten.
"You're kidding me," I whispered.
My husband, Daniel, squeezed my hand.
"Sarah, please. Not today.""
I watched Eric cross the room. He didn't look at the mourners. He didn't stop to speak to anyone. He simply walked toward our father's casket, placed one hand against the polished wood, and stood there.
For a moment, I thought he might cry.
Instead, he closed his eyes.
Then he stepped back.
I couldn't take it anymore.
I crossed the chapel and grabbed his elbow.
"What are you wearing?""
Eric turned toward me. His face was pale, his eyes bloodshot, and his hair looked as though he'd been running his hands through it all morning.
"Not now, Sarah.""
"Are you serious? Dad is lying ten feet away, and you're dressed like a traffic light.""
His jaw tightened.
"Keep your voice down.""
"Dad would've hated this.""
Something changed in his expression.
Not anger.
Something closer to sadness.
"No," he said quietly.
"He wouldn't.""
I stared at him.
"What does that mean?""
Eric looked toward the casket.
"It means you don't know everything about him.""
Before I could respond, the funeral director approached and asked everyone to take their seats.
I returned to the front row, my face burning.
My father, Robert Mitchell, had been a disciplined man. He believed in polished shoes, pressed shirts, punctuality, and keeping promises. He'd served in the military before building a successful construction company in Ohio.
He had raised us to respect traditions.
Eric had always been the difficult one.
He'd dropped out of college, changed jobs repeatedly, and spent years arguing with Dad. They could turn a simple Sunday dinner into a battlefield.
I had been the responsible child.
I finished college. Married Daniel. Helped Dad with his business paperwork. Visited him every week after his heart problems began.
When the doctors told us he had only months left, I was the one who arranged his appointments, organized his medications, and made sure someone was always nearby.
Eric?
He disappeared for nearly eleven months.
He occasionally sent a text. Sometimes he'd call Dad late at night. But whenever I asked where he was, he'd give me the same answer.
"Taking care of something.""
I hated that answer.
I hated even more that Dad never pushed him for an explanation.
The service began.
Pastor Williams spoke about Dad's generosity, his military service, and his devotion to his family.
I listened, holding a tissue between my fingers.
Then he mentioned something that made me glance at Eric.
"Robert often told me that his greatest regret was not being able to protect everyone he loved.""
Eric lowered his head.
I frowned.
What was that supposed to mean?
After the service, we followed the hearse to the cemetery.
The October wind swept through the trees, scattering yellow leaves across the grass. I stood beside Daniel while the funeral director prepared the final arrangements.
Eric remained several feet away.
He didn't speak to anyone.
He just kept one hand inside the pocket of that red jacket.
Then a familiar voice interrupted the silence.
"Sarah?""
I turned.
Mr. Lawson, my father's attorney, was approaching us with his leather briefcase.
He was seventy-two, silver-haired, and usually so composed that I'd never seen him lose his temper.
He had handled our family's legal affairs for nearly thirty years.
He'd prepared Dad's will, managed the company contracts, and helped us navigate the medical paperwork during Dad's final months.
"Mr. Lawson," I said, extending my hand.
"I'm sorry for your loss.""
"Thank you.""
His eyes moved past me.
Then he saw Eric.
He stopped walking.
His expression changed so suddenly that I thought he might have recognized someone behind him.
But he wasn't looking at anyone else.
He was staring at the red suit.
Slowly, his briefcase slipped lower in his hand.
"Eric?""
My brother turned.
"Yes?""
Mr. Lawson took two steps closer.
"Where did you get that suit?""
Eric glanced down at himself.
"This?""
"Yes. That jacket.""
"It was in Dad's closet.""
I frowned.
"What?""
Eric looked at me.
"I found it at the house.""
"That's impossible. I cleaned out most of Dad's clothes last month. There was no red suit.""
"Not that closet.""
"What closet, then?""
"The one downstairs.""
I shook my head.
"Dad's downstairs study doesn't have a closet.""
Eric hesitated.
Then he looked directly at Mr. Lawson.
"There's a door behind the bookcase.""
The attorney went completely still.
I looked between them.
"What door?""
Eric continued.
"I was looking for Dad's military papers. One of the shelves moved when I pulled a book. There was a narrow door behind it.""
Mr. Lawson's face had gone pale.
"How many suits?""
"Three. All inside garment bags. Two black ones and the red one.""
"And the note?""
Eric nodded.
"There was a note pinned to the red jacket. My name was written on it.""
I felt a strange chill.
"Why didn't you tell me?""
"Because I didn't know what it meant.""
Mr. Lawson set his briefcase on a nearby bench.
"Did you check the pockets?""
Eric shook his head.
The attorney looked around. Several mourners were beginning to approach us.
"Come with me. Both of you.""
He led us toward a small maintenance building near the cemetery entrance.
Once inside, he closed the door.
"Eric," he said, his voice unusually unsteady.
"Take off the jacket.""
My brother stared at him.
"Why?""
"Please. Just do it.""
Eric slowly removed the jacket.
Mr. Lawson examined the exterior, then searched the inside pockets.
Nothing.
He checked the lower pockets.
Still nothing.
Then his fingers stopped near the left side of the chest.
He pressed the fabric.
A faint crackling sound came from somewhere beneath the lining.
The attorney looked up.
"Dear God.""
He turned the jacket inside out.
A small section of lining had been carefully stitched by hand. The thread was nearly invisible, matching the red fabric perfectly.
Mr. Lawson opened his briefcase and removed a tiny pair of scissors.
"What is it?"" I asked.
He didn't answer.
He carefully cut the thread.
A folded letter slipped into his palm, followed by a thick cream-colored envelope containing several documents.
He stared at them for several seconds.
Then he whispered something that made my brother's hands begin to shake.
"Your father told me I'd know when it was time.""
He handed the letter to Eric.
"Your father spent the last year of his life preparing this. He made me promise it would only reach you if you found the red suit and chose to wear it.""
I stepped forward.
"Why Eric?""
Mr. Lawson looked at me.
"Because your father believed there was something your brother needed to understand before the truth could be revealed.""
Eric unfolded the letter.
His fingers trembled.
The first line read:
Son—if you're reading this, you wore the red one. I knew you would.
Eric swallowed hard.
He continued reading silently.
Then his face crumpled.
He looked at Mr. Lawson.
"Why didn't you tell me he was dying?""
The attorney lowered his eyes.
And I suddenly understood that whatever was inside that envelope, it wasn't simply about an old suit.
May you like
It was about the eleven months Eric had disappeared.
And perhaps the reason my father had let him.
