Chapter 8: The Letter in the Blazer

On Saturday morning I found a garment bag hanging at the back of the hall closet, and it was still full of Preston.

The packers had missed it because it was behind my winter coat.

I carried it out to the porch to set it beside the curb, where I had told him I would leave anything else.

Tucker was already on the walk with a coffee in each hand.

"You're up early for someone who works nights," I said.

"I sleep after dawn. Today I'm staying up for this."

He handed me a cup.

I had not asked him to come, and I had not asked him to stay away either.

"What's in the bag?" he said.

"His good suits. He'll want them for court."

"Let me carry it."

"It's a garment bag, Tucker. It weighs nothing."

"Then I'll carry nothing," he said, and he took the bag out of my hands anyway.

We laid it on the porch swing and I unzipped it to check that it was only clothes.

There were three suits, a tuxedo and a blazer I had never seen.

It was a navy blazer with gold buttons, and it had been hung with the lining turned out.

I touched the inside pocket because I was thorough, and my fingers found paper.

It was a folded envelope, soft at the creases from being opened many times.

The return address was a men's health lab in Dublin, Ohio, with a patient number under it.

The name on the front was Preston Lyle.

"That's his," Tucker said gently. "You don't have to open it."