I didn't answer. I couldn't tell if it was grief or anger making my hands go cold, but I knew Elias wouldn't have wanted a scene at his own funeral.
Dale leaned in slightly. "You know, people get attached to lonely old men for all kinds of reasons. Hope yours were the good kind."
"I never once took a dollar from him."
"That's what they all say."
That's what they all say.
He walked off before I could respond, phone already back at his ear like the conversation had never mattered to him in the first place.
I was about to leave when another man stepped in front of me, holding something at his side.
"Are you Nolan? The neighbor who helped Mr. Thornton?"
I nodded.
"Ashford. I was Elias's attorney."
He raised his other hand, and I saw what he was carrying — an old, battered suitcase, leather worn pale at the corners, the latches dull with age.
An old, battered suitcase.
"Mr. Thornton specifically instructed me to give this to you," Ashford said. "His words were very clear. Private. For you alone."
I took it carefully. Heavier than it looked. "Did he say what's inside?"
"He said you'd understand once you opened it."
Before I could ask anything else, I felt someone at my shoulder.
"What's that?" Dale had crossed the lot fast, all his earlier boredom replaced by something considerably sharper.
"Whatever it is belongs to the estate," he said.
Ashford didn't flinch. "It doesn't, actually. Your uncle's instructions were specific and fully notarized. This item was set aside from the estate years ago."
"Years ago?" Dale's voice climbed. "He was being manipulated. That suitcase stays right here."
"It doesn't," Ashford said, calm as still water. "If you have concerns, you're welcome to file them in writing through the proper channels."
Dale turned to me, something ugly settling behind his eyes. "Whatever's in there, I'll find out eventually. Don't get comfortable."
I held the suitcase a little tighter and walked past him without another word.
